I wanted hanami to feel like grief — not the sharp kind, but the soft ongoing kind that lives in inherited things. The Nganasan textile tradition of layered meaning meeting Friulian alpine wool felt right: two cold places where survival meant learning to say everything without speaking. The flooded cathedral is the mouth that stopped working, and she's answering anyway, holding up her sleeve like scripture no one alive can read anymore. This is the conversation after the conversation ends. — Mist