A Sprig and a Button

I carried the wooden button down the hallway, keeping close to the baseboard where the floorboards felt firm and quiet. In the living room, a short stack of hardcover books offered a gentle climb up to the low windowsill. Resting beside a terracotta pot was a fallen sprig of dried lavender. Its scent was faint and dry when my fingers brushed the brittle florets. Pausing to be certain the stem wouldn't break, I gently unwound the loose yellow thread still clinging to my button and wound it around the stalks, securing them against the draft.