The Afghan

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead inside the dusty old thrift store - and in my hands, a homespun afghan drapes over my fingertips. There's a superstition within the crochet community that your soul is imbued in the things you create, so it’s wise to leave a mistake: a door for your soul to escape, if need be.
I examine the afghan, admiring the intricate designs. “Flawless,” I whisper - an unnatural warmth pouring from its stitches.