Golden Melody (Editing)

Chapter 143

Chapter 143

Zatariel's point of view

Sunday has been officially designated as a strategic liquidation day.

For charity, of course.
Let us call it public welfare.
A noble redistribution of surplus excellence.

Jayson has already begun preliminary feasibility calculations for the housing project.

Naturally.
He created a spreadsheet before breakfast.

Efficiency is his preferred coping mechanism.

Asha is responsible for aesthetic approval of the booth design.
I forwarded her the draft layout this morning.

Minimalist. Structured. Respectable.

White base palette.

Elegant typography.

Clear signage explaining the purpose:

Foundation Month Charity Booth — Housing Stability Initiative

Public sentiment responds favorably to organized compassion.

And visually pleasing fonts.

Now—

The difficult task:

Finding objects I am emotionally prepared to part with.

I began in my room.

White walls.
White shelves.
White furniture.

A calming environment that discourages chaos and questionable decision-making.

Unfortunately, this also means that nearly everything inside my room holds functional or aesthetic value.

My mother has already eliminated most childhood objects.

Toys.

Old clothing.

Anything she deemed visually offensive to interior harmony.

Her definition of sentimental value is "does this match the wall?"

Merciless.

I sighed.

Minimalism creates logistical difficulties during donation drives.

After several minutes of standing still and evaluating my life—

I found something.

A pillowcase I never particularly liked.

Too textured.
Unacceptable tactile experience.

It felt... opinionated.

I picked it up.
Held it at a distance.

As one does when handling emotionally disappointing fabric.

Then dropped it into the container labeled:

SELL

A strong start.

Every great empire begins with a questionable pillowcase.

I moved to my shoe collection.

Custom-made.

Visually impressive. Physically hostile.

"These attempted to assassinate my toes," I muttered.

Into the box.

No hesitation.

Several white shirts followed.

Worn once. Twice. Three times at most.

Practically ancient.