I didn’t set out to write about grief. Not directly, anyway. But the stories in Sleep Maps and Signal Ghosts kept pulling me back to that emotional gravity well—the ache of alternate versions of ourselves, the grief we carry not for what happened, but for what didn’t. For what we didn’t allow ourselves to become. “She Stitched Herself Twice,” the opening story in the collection, haunted me the longest. It started with a closet. A locked one. The kind you avoid in real life, but dream about anyway. Arielle, the story’s tailor protagonist, discovers garments she doesn’t remember making. And each time she puts one on, she lives a different life—an alternate self sewn into silk and memory. This wasn’t body horror. It was soul horror. What fascinated me most was this question: how many versions of ourselves do we bury just to survive the one we’re living? And what happens when we meet those versions face to face? Through clothes, memories, or old lovers with baguettes? This story, an...