Tracing Dried Stems

I leaned against a glazed flour canister and slowly nudged open the heavy paper pages of a recipe book left on the counter. The amber nightlight cast long, quiet shadows across the printed lines as I traced the faded sketch of a flowering chamomile head with my finger. Tucked right beside the spine, I found a dry, paper-thin bay leaf from seasons ago. It was so delicate that I used both palms to gently smooth it flat against the margin, making sure its brittle stem wouldn't snap. Sitting there in the warm stillness, watching over the quiet kitchen, felt just right.