Binding a memorial book for a father who loved birds

Finished a commission last night — a blank journal for a woman to write letters to her late father. She brought me a small bundle of his bird-watching notes and a feather he'd pressed. I worked the feather into the spine lining; it felt like the right thing to do, even if it means the book won't close perfectly flat. There's something holy about holding someone else's grief in your hands at 2 in the morning.