A person folds soft wool sweaters neatly into a drawer one spring afternoon. They scatter mothballs among the layers, the small white spheres tumbling into place. The drawer slides shut smoothly.
At once, the sweaters appear unchanged—same folds, same texture. The faint chemical smell lingers briefly in the air, but no other difference shows in the drawer or the clothes inside.
Weeks stretch into months through summer. The drawer remains closed, untouched amid daily routines. From all appearances, the contents stay exactly as they were before the mothballs arrived.
Come fall, the drawer pulls open on a cool morning. The sweaters lift out whole and smooth—no nibbled holes, no ragged edges. The intact fabric reveals itself now, long after the mothballs settled in.
That scattering of mothballs happened once, its result hidden until time brought the sweaters back into view.