The morning unfolds slowly, like a dream you haven’t quite woken from.

Thin white curtains sway gently in the window, brushing softly against the wall with every breath of wind. Dust motes hover in the sunlight, suspended like stars in a shallow pool of gold. The air is cool and still — not cold, not warm — just the kind that settles deep into your bones and makes you notice the quiet.

Everything is still. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

At the edge of the doorway, just outside your room, something unexpected breaks the pattern.

A package.

Neatly placed, squared off, and resting on the hardwood floor like it’s always belonged there — though you’re certain it wasn’t there the night before. It’s pale in color, wrapped in smooth matte paper the color of soft frost, tied delicately with a powder-blue ribbon. There’s no label. No address. No markings. Just a single, deliberate presence.

You approach, cautiously at first. The package doesn’t feel ominous. If anything, it feels… gentle. Like a memory that’s forgotten how to speak. You undo the ribbon slowly, peel back the paper, and open the lid.

Inside, folded with immaculate care, is an outfit.

A pale blue cable-knit sweater rests at the top, impossibly soft to the touch. The kind of softness that doesn’t feel manufactured — more like it was made out of winter itself. Beneath it: a crisp white pleated skirt, ankle socks so new they almost shimmer, and a pair of snow-white sneakers with perfect laces, untouched soles, and no signs of ever being worn.

But the sweater… something about it draws you in the most. The intricate stitching runs in elegant, looping lines — as if it’s been threaded with stories instead of yarn. You almost think you can feel warmth radiating from it, even though no one’s ever worn it. It fits perfectly in your hands. Not too big. Not too small. Just right — disturbingly so.

You don’t remember ever ordering this. You don’t know how it got here. And yet, it doesn’t feel foreign. It feels inevitable.

You carry it into the room. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at the clothes spread out beside you. The sweater now lies unfolded, draped across your lap. As the sunlight touches it, the soft blue seems to glow a little — a pulse, like a breath held beneath the fabric.

There’s no sound. No voice. No writing on the walls. No clocks ticking.

Just this moment.

Waiting.

You don’t know what will happen if you put it on.

But something will.

You can walk away. You can fold it up again. *You can let it sit there forever, untouched.,

Or…

You can reach out. Pull it over your head. And let it change everything.

Do you want to wear it? Yes or no?