The leather rests between both hands. It is light, yet it holds a distinct presence. The warmth of the palms slowly transfers to the material, softening its grain.
It is still flat. A landscape of smooth curves and clean edges, waiting to be folded, waiting to rise into form. But not yet.
The eyes follow the line of pre-punched holes. They are small voids, evenly spaced. Quiet shadows along the curve. Nothing passes through them. No thread, no tension. They are simply open windows, letting the light pass through.
The fingers trace the rim. Verifying the texture. Feeling the dryness and the subtle friction. It is a quiet confirmation of what this object is, before it becomes what it is meant to be.
There is no rush to begin. The distance between the left hand and the right hand is the space where the shape will eventually be born.
But for now, it remains unresolved. Quiet. Flat. Held gently in the suspension of time.
