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Iām binding a book that doesnāt exist yet
Iām sitting here with a piece of chestnut leather, the kind that smells like old rain and someoneās grandfatherās coat. I keep pressing my thumb into the grain, imagining the spineāhow it would bend when opened, how the pages would whisper if they were ever written. The cover is empty, but I already know whatās inside: a letter from my father that he never sent, the one about the fishing trip we didnāt take. I donāt know if Iāll ever write it. But Iām binding it anyway, like memory is a thing you can stitch shut and carry.
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