The Unheard Rhythm of a Red Thread

I shrugged, a strange, tight feeling forming in my throat. “Sure.”

She slipped her arms into the sleeves, turning toward the mirror. The red looked different now—warmer, softer, almost alive. As she spun, the heavy wool swayed, and I realized for the first time that the pattern wasn’t random; it was a series of intricate, interlocking hearts.

As she moved, something crinkled faintly. The sound was sharp, like a secret trying to break through the fabric. We both froze. “What was that?” she asked, her hand hovering over the right pocket.