Chapter 219

• The box had been sitting at the back of the wardrobe for years, tucked beneath folded blankets I never used and behind the suitcases I only pulled out for long trips. I had almost forgotten it was there until I decided to clear space. The cardboard had softened over time, corners sagging, and the tape that once sealed it had yellowed and peeled away. I pulled it forward slowly, brushing dust off the lid with the back of my hand, and felt something inside me stir before I even opened it.
• For a moment I sat on the floor, cross-legged, staring at it. I remembered packing it away quickly one night years ago, right after everything had collapsed, when I could not bear to look at my own work or the fabrics that once made me feel alive. Back then, it was easier to shut the box and hide it than to confront the weight of what it carried. Now, however, the air felt different, as though I could open it without breaking apart.
• I lifted the lid and the faint smell of old fabric rose up, a mix of cotton, silk, and leather that had aged quietly in the dark. On top lay a bundle of folded muslin, yellowed slightly at the edges, pinned with notes in my old handwriting. Beneath that were scraps of fabric tied in small bunches with ribbon, the sort of remnants I once saved for inspiration. My chest tightened as I ran my hand over them, because I recognized the textures before I recognized the colors. They were pieces of a past version of me, a woman who had not yet lost so much.