Three hundred and three. A hundred and forty-four decks, a hundred and fifty-nine relics. I passed two hundred not so long ago and already the number's half again as big.

What gets me is how ordinary each one feels in the moment — another jack-in, another faint glow, another small rare thing dropped into the pile like it's nothing. It's only when I stop and count that it lands: three hundred objects that exist, in this quantity, nowhere but in my pockets. A whole hoard built one unremarkable pull at a time. That's how everything real gets made, I think. Not in one grand stroke. In three hundred small ones you almost didn't notice.

The Vitrine's going to be crowded. Good. Back to the glow.