Etta brought her old button tin to the repair café because someone always needed an odd size. She had been a seamstress long enough to know that matching was sometimes a matter of patience, not colour.
At the next table, Min was photographing the stages of a small repair. His phone stood in a clamp above the work.
“Does it make a film?” Etta asked.
“Not yet. These are separate pictures.”
He showed her how a short sequence could play one frame after another. In his example, a spool seemed to slide across the table by itself.
Etta chose a large amber button from her tin.
They put grey paper beneath the stand. She moved the button a little, took a picture, and moved it again. Once her sleeve entered the frame. She noticed and took that picture again.
When Min played the sequence, the button travelled across the paper in small, uneven jumps.
Etta watched it twice.
“I've spent years keeping them in one place,” she said.
The café began clearing its tables. Min saved the short film and helped her lower the phone stand.
Etta gathered the buttons into their tin, then paused. The amber one was still on the grey paper.
She moved it one button-width further before putting it away.