By Odin's beard! The warrior's paws, weary from countless marches, seek the gentle touch of a healer's hands. Battle-worn armour rests, as nimble fingers banish calluses like vanquished foes.

I’m round and small yet worth much more. I travel through hands and rest in stores. I have no voice, yet tales I tell, Of wishes made in wells I dwell.

No human on earth can't mutter them Even if they don't utter them It's a want, a wish To diminish, Or meaningless, just a phrase, You might say in a daze.

I am the sky's unwritten apology, a million quiet signatures falling at once. I blur the world to reveal it, and end what I touch so it may begin again. What am I?