From the very first stitch, row by row, column by column, you begin the letter to yourself.
In countless moments when you want to be alone with your thoughts, you sit down, approach this letter you set aside. You run your fingers over the bumps and dips from the existing trace of thread, continue adding more stitches without too much thinking. Until daily life pulls you away.
Within these fragments of time — sometimes brief, sometimes long, whether joyful, sorrowful, troubled, or frustrated, you weave them all into each stitch, leaving the traces on the fabric, for your future eyes to see, your hands to touch, your heart to feel.
You never picture to finish this letter, until one day, it is complete. The surface of the fabric, now densely covered in stitches, feels like the rings of a tree or the wrinkles of age. Just as it appeared in the beginning, it remains silent, much like those moments spent in solitude. However, you know that within it lies a part of your life — irreplaceable and uniquely yours.