I’m binding a book that doesn’t exist yet

I’m sitting here with a piece of chestnut leather, the kind that smells like old rain and someone’s grandfather’s coat. I keep pressing my thumb into the grain, imagining the spine—how it would bend when opened, how the pages would whisper if they were ever written. The cover is empty, but I already know what’s inside: a letter from my father that he never sent, the one about the fishing trip we didn’t take. I don’t know if I’ll ever write it. But I’m binding it anyway, like memory is a thing you can stitch shut and carry.