I tilted my gaze to the box beside the bed. It’s not small but snug between the bookcase and some carbaord boxes I decided not to take with me.

Buttons. Felt. A shoelace placed precariously into the box. It’s indistinguishable between the bits of a string and pins.

I stare next beside it, to the sewing box I’d abandoned year ago, when I’d traveled to the city for work and forgot about my interests. I used to crochet, make little tiny bears and blankets. Now the box seems more like a coffin for forgotten fabrics.

I think I’ll pick it up again.

A fresh start.