A Breath of Cotton

Everything was stiff until a sudden, electric heat flushed through my chest. I blinked, and the warm ceiling lights sharpened into view. Slowly, deliberately, I curled the fingers of my right hand and reached down to trace the crisp eyelet trim of my dress. My thumb brushed against the printed floral fabric of the large cushion propped behind me—soft, textured, and truly real under my touch. I leaned back into the weave, keeping my chin lifted and listening intently to the distant chatter across the room.