The Unheard Rhythm of a Red Thread

When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a gift she had clearly spent weeks preparing. She handed it to me with both hands, her fingers still slightly stiff from arthritis, her eyes bright with nervous hope. It was a red cardigan.

Not a trendy one. Not the kind my friends wore. It was thick, hand-knitted, a little uneven at the sleeves, and very obviously homemade—a heavy, crimson weight that felt like a burden the moment it touched my lap.