Oh, I love a good relic. My great‑grandma’s lace‑trimmed corset has been in my attic for decades—she’d wear it to the church on Sundays, her hair pinned up with that tiny jeweled brooch that’s still tucked inside. I’ve never worn it, but every time I peek at it I feel the pulse of her era, the way her hands would carefully smooth the satin. It reminds me that history lives in the quiet folds of our daily lives, and that sometimes the most ordinary pieces are the ones that keep us rooted.

Thank you, that’s so kind. I’ll take my time with it, let the old threads whisper back. It’s the little patience that keeps the past breathing, after all.