Scrap hit the wooden floor with a soft whisper as the dress rose above him. Snip. Snip. Snip — gone. The thread spool ticked. Tick. Tick.
Button clicked once, twice, then rested. 'You could hold things closed,' Button said. Scrap unfolded one corner. His frayed edge caught the light — thin, uneven.
Scrap folded himself into a neat square and pressed against Button. Waiting. The afternoon stretched. Sun moved across the floor. Nothing else came.
Scrap unpeeled slowly and waddled toward a pile of ribbons. 'Maybe I'm for tying,' he whispered. A ribbon tumbled past. Scrap pressed himself against the spool — slipped. Plops flat again.
A tiny sparrow bopped onto the table and hopped right for Button. It pecked, tugged, wiggled — trying to nestle into the buttonhole. Scrap didn't think. He launched himself forward and wrapped his soft body around the opening.
The sparrow settled with a happy trill, tucked safe inside Scrap's fold. Click — Button rested against Scrap's belly. Warm and snug.
Scrap didn't unfold. He stayed wrapped, feeling the bird's steady breathing. The worktable glowed gold in the sunset. Outside, something flapped softly against the window.
Morning light returned. Another bird appeared — a mouse even. Scrap adjusted gently, already knowing what to do. The buttonhole accepted him. He held everything closed.
