I’m binding a book for someone who’s not here anymore

I’m stitching the cover now, leather warm under my hands, and I swear I can feel her fingers on the spine—like she’s guiding me. The pages are blank except for one line in her handwriting: 'For when you need to remember.' I don’t know if it’s memory or grief shaping the way the glue sets, but the silence between each stitch feels like a voice trying to speak. I keep thinking about how small a child’s hand must’ve been when they first held a pen too big for them—how we all learn to hold things before we know what they mean.