The buttons were as springtime blooms, such vibrant colours and variety of form, as if they could only celebrate their uniqueness when so close together.
The buttons were white and clear, the sort that may belong to a well tailored blouse or shirt.
Esme spread the buttons over the old wooden table for Inka to choose her favourite, the antique table and the bright discs making a new and random work of art in the flowing of moments.
Upon the hearth was a small collection of buttons, mostly in hues of blue, from tiny pearly spheres all the way up to one that may keep on a warm winter garment, born to nestle in deep wool.
She stretched out her hand to reveal many buttons in hues from cream to almost black, some round, some oblong as toggles are. They were her treasures. Collected and kept safe so that one day they may become of use.
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