Inside the box is a stack of at least ten neatly folded fabrics, each a variation of some sort of brown. My trembling fingers glide over the fine textiles, while my heart doubles its beat with every passing second. Chestnut, dark beige, and russet silk. Copper-colored lace with gold embroidered accents. Super thin cotton in a delicious mocha. Soft and flowy, perfect for summer clothes. How on earth did he get his hands on these?
At the bottom of the box, there is another note. A lone sentence on another unpretentious page.
I hope these cover every shade of brown, so now you can finally stop pestering me about the differences in each letter you write.
M.
I press my hand over my mouth and giggle. I have been pestering him. A lot. Teased him, even, for not being able to differentiate the
