There is a patchwork café down the road that attracts a certain type of person. These people have known loss so great that they all feel trapped; their lives have stopped, almost not worth living for anymore. They are pulled by some invisible force to the shop by its exposed brickwork and mismatched wall of books, its weak tea and its unforgettable stench of burnt coffee beans. A disaster, a mismatched haven of familiarity.
At the back of the café is a wall and like all the others its bricks are vulnerable, uneven and a stark reminder that not everything is perfect. However, this wall is different, it’s adorned by pairs of gloves of all different shapes, sizes, colours and style. They are left by regulars whose story has not yet known the grief that comes with loss, regulars who have seen that certain type of customer and leave them as a reminder to a lost soul; that there is someone in the world who will fit into their life like a glove.