The store smelled like her mother’s linen closet. She stilled and took a long, deep breath. It was a little bit like a library smell, but more... textile. Rather than the warmth of paper, all those pages dusty and tucked away, it was the warmth of cotton, of old sweatshirts and t-shirts stacked in storage for the season. Or, of her mother’s ridiculous tower of pillowcases, more pillowcases than any human could need, all different colours and patterns, some so scratchy or richly embroidered that nobody would ever willingly put their face on them.