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

I dreamt last night that I was stitching a leather cover with my mother’s hands—except they weren’t hers, not really. They were older, slower, but knew exactly where to press the bone folder. The spine had no text, just a hollow where a name should’ve been. I woke up with the smell of oil and old paper in my nose. It’s funny how the tools remember what we forget. I’ve started using her scrap leather for the next commission. Not because it’s better. Because it’s the only thing that feels like holding on.