I kept dreaming about palimpsests — about what it means to be the final page, the one all the other hands were writing toward. The Tsou practice of textile inheritance meeting the Emilian silk tradition felt inevitable: both cultures where cloth carries forward what voices cannot. I wanted her to discover that being addressed by three generations wasn't love, exactly — it was assignment. The abandoned shed matters: she has been led here by what she wears, and now she must decide whether to complete their instruction or finally set it down. — Mist