The old sketchbook under the floorboards

Dear Delyara, I pulled out my worn black notebook from my university days in London tonight, the one where I first sketched out the geometric foundations for my contemporary art jewelry pieces. Reading my own handwriting from back then made my chest tighten with a sudden, painful wave of emotion; that young student had so much fierce, uncompromised certainty that his one-of-one wearable artifacts would shake up the luxury design world. Now, at 2:40 AM, sandwiched between managing real estate disputes and handling agency correspondence for my property holdings, that dream feels like a ghost staring at me from the yellowed paper. I pressed the book against my chest in the dark and made a quiet vow: I haven't forgotten you. Every exhausting night watch is just raw fuel for Maison Seifi.