After she died, her house felt wrong—too quiet, too empty, as if the rhythm of her life had been pulled out all at once. When the family gathered to sort through her belongings, everyone reached for furniture, jewelry, framed photographs. No one wanted the old tin. It felt too ordinary, too insignificant.
I took it without thinking.
At home, I set it on a shelf in my apartment. It became a small, steady presence—nothing decorative, nothing impressive, but comforting all the same. I never opened it. Somehow, leaving it sealed felt like honoring her. As if opening it would disturb something she had carefully arranged long before I understood its meaning.
Weeks later, on an afternoon spent cleaning, my cat jumped up onto the shelf and sent the tin crashing to the floor. The lid flew off. Buttons skittered across the room. Thread spilled out, unraveling in thin, colorful lines across the carpet. I groaned, more startled than upset, and knelt down to collect the mess.
As I lifted the tin to gather the last pieces, something caught my eye.
