“This,” he said, voice hushed, “is the most delicate thing I have ever seen. It’s not just flimsy. It’s strimsy in the truest sense. It’s a promise that has already begun to break.”
She placed the box on the counter. Inside, nestled in a wad of cotton, was a single wing. It wasn’t a butterfly’s or a bird’s. It was a memory —a physical, shimmering thing. It looked like a shard of stained glass painted with a sunset, but it bent and rippled like a soap bubble in a draft. It was the most strimsy object he had ever seen. strimsy.word
He closed the drawer on the spun-glass horn, knowing he would never need it again. The most strimsy things, he realized, were not the ones that broke. They were the ones that gave every last scrap of themselves away just to be heard one final time. “This,” he said, voice hushed, “is the most