As you hold Luna, Yes, I named this fork, you can almost feel the whisper of wind that once rustled through this sycamore's leaves. Its pale wood grain tells a story of seasons past, each line a chapter in nature's grand novel. The fork's gentle curves nestle perfectly in your palm, as if carved by the river that might have flowed past its roots. When you bring it to your lips, laden with a morsel of your latest culinary creation, you're not just eating – you're communing with the very essence of the beautiful tree that gave birth to it.