The straw hat sat lightly on the table, but the wind carried a different truth.

“This is not a hat,” an old woman whispered as she passed.

She reached up, fingers tracing the woven fibers—only to feel them shift, twitch, breathe. The straw unraveled, stretching into thin, golden limbs. Tiny wings fluttered where the brim had been.

With a rustling sigh, the hat leaped from the table and scurried into the tall grass, vanishing like a memory you were never meant to have.