deliberate. At the top were thin, articulated projections—like antennae or jointed limbs—arranged with unsettling precision.
It didn’t resemble anything familiar.
Not a tool.
Not an ornament.
Not something meant to be understood at a glance.
No one could explain what it was for.
When she handed it to me, I felt it immediately.
A weight—not just physical, but emotional. The moment my fingers closed around it, something shifted. Memories surfaced that didn’t feel like memories at all—fragments, sensations, impressions that didn’t belong to me, yet felt disturbingly close.
My chest
