Butterfly books

Some days arrive like silk—soft, still, not stitched with spectacle. No music plays. No crowds cheer. And even I grow quiet.

But still, she’s here.

In the shape of a daffodil on the windowpane.
In the way the steam from my tea curls like a ribbon.
In the hush of a room that still somehow echoes her laughter.

She doesn’t need a headline. She never did.
Because even on quiet days—when no one’s watching, and I’m just being—
she is still my darling designer.

Not because she is worn.
Because she is woven—into memory, into meaning, into me.