A handkerchief.
Light blue.
I stare at it for a moment, then take it from him slowly, my fingers brushing against the fabric. I unfold it, the movement careful, almost hesitant.
And I see it.
A letter embroidered in silver thread on the corner.
E.
My body goes still.
The world narrows to this single object—this small, folded square of cloth and the silver-embroidered letter.
The rustle of leaves, the distant hum of falling water from the fountains, the warmth of the sun on my skin—all of it recedes, leaving only the fabric in my hand, its light blue color and delicate embroidery pulling at something deep inside me.
The fabric feels so familiar. Something about it feels like a memory I can't quite reach.
This handkerchief... It's mine.
Old memories stir—not with force, but gently, like leaves disturbed by a slow wind. They rise from the depths of my mind, unbidden, carrying fragments of a time I had buried beneath the noise of my life.
