It's not as if she never held something delicate or that gives with the barest press of her thumb, but there is something about the items in the Vault that unsettle Toast. Pillows might be a comfort to her head, but the fabric that clothes them disturbs her--thin veils, delicate sleeves, soft against her chest.

Easy to tear.

Toast misses the scratch of her old clothes, the molded hardness of her boots, and even the callouses on her hands after she is trapped for long enough. Just to be spiteful, she stays in the sun until her skin burns and flakes, just for some friction under her fingers once more.