I opened the tube and thin paper, gossamer and light in ways that spoke to quality and price spilled across my lap. The individual bits of plant matter suspended in the paper were even delicate, forming waves with very little texture, high quality that spoke to care at every level. Such a gift was uncommon, usually only given between lovers or during specific ceremonies. Across the pages splashed art, scenes of winter and loss, warmth and finding home, tales from across the world, almost a fever dream worthy of exhibition in the halls of artists. The charcoal and stark black contrasted against the white of the paper, making it stand out like the empty branches outside. None of the pieces had any color in them, all of them were stark and unforgiving, hard and worn, declarations of strength
