They were meant to hold things together.
A shirt worn to a reunion.
A dress folded in a suitcase that never made it home.
A school uniform left behind in the rush to grow up.

Now they sit unthreaded.
Unfastened from their original role.
But still whole. Still waiting.

You wonder what they once belonged to —
and more curiously,
who they belonged to.

Were they chosen carefully, or sewn in by habit?
Did someone run their fingers over them each morning
before stepping into the world?

They are small, quiet things.
But they remind us:
even the tiniest closures
can carry the weight of what was once held together.