Dawn always helped her mother polish the silver. She wasn't allowed to touch the chemicals, but even when she was little she rubbed the forks and spoons with a soft cloth until they gleamed.

"These will be yours someday," her mother would say. "Buffy gets the china, and you get the silver. It was my grandmother's, and it will be yours."

Even after her mother was gone, Dawn kept up the polishing, though tears burned her eyes and the polish burned her skin. Her great-grandmother's, her mother's, hers. A link, despite monks and keys.

And now it was all dust.

~end~