THE BUTTON THAT REMEMBERS

But Lena loved it because it was his.
Felix, who saw the world in pastels and spoke in poems, had worn it every day until he didn't. When he was gone, Lena kept it folded perfectly in the cedar chest.
Six months later, folding laundry, she noticed a tiny detail she’d missed: one of the silver buttons on the left sleeve was loose. She picked up a needle and thread, threading it carefully.
As the needle passed through the final stitch, a warmth bloomed beneath her thumb. The silver button pulsed with a faint, deep-blue light. When the glow faded, a memory rushed into her mind, sudden and vivid: Felix, laughing in the rain, pulling her close under a single umbrella.
Lena gasped. She touched another button, the one on the collar. The blue light returned, brighter this time. A second memory: The morning they moved in together, painting the kitchen wall a disastrous shade of yellow.
She realized these weren't just buttons. They were anchors, tiny repositories of their shared joy, somehow holding the residue of his love. Every button held a different, perfect moment—a first kiss, a silly fight, a quiet night on the porch swing.
Lena didn't need the whole jacket, or the chest, or the memories from the future they wouldn't have. She just needed these small, silver keepsakes.
Every night, she would touch one button before bed, watching the blue light flicker, experiencing one perfect minute of him all over again. Grief was still heavy, but now, it was lit by tiny, electric stars.