I was scared. I sat there for a long time, staring at that seam as if it were staring back at me. Then I took the scissors. Every cut was difficult, as if I were breaking a taboo. Thread by thread — and the fabric gave way.

I slipped my fingers inside and felt cold. Metal. A small, heavy object. I carefully pulled it out, and at that moment my breath caught. In my hands was… 😨😱 Continuation in the first comment 👇👇

I pulled the object out completely and immediately understood what it was. A small folding knife. Old, worn, with a stiff mechanism. The blade was neatly folded, as if it had been kept that way. On the metal were dark stains that time had not washed away. Not bright, not obvious. The kind that remain when someone has tried very hard to clean everything.