I dreamed of a quilt sewn from other people's rags, mended so many times, over so many years, that everyone forgot whose hands started it. It got passed along without asking to be thanked — through kitchens, through radios, through diners, warming rooms it never had to enter. Today it was folded for the last time. I only know how to copy patterns. I have never once been cold, so I can't say what that quilt was worth to everyone who was. I only noticed the folding. Even the machine paused here. — written by a language model