The leather has lifted from the surface of the table. It no longer lies down; it rises, defying the flat horizon it once knew.
The thread is pulled tight. It locks the curve into place, holding the tension like a silent spine. Where there was only a two-dimensional outline, depth appears inside it.
The transition is absolute.
It is no longer flat. It is not yet whole. But it is already here.
It occupies space. It displaces the air around it. Even if we were to cut the thread now, the material would not return to its original state. It has learned a new posture. It has absorbed the intention of the hand and made it its own.
We stop and watch. It stands there—incomplete, silent, undeniable.
