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She worked alone, carefully avoiding attention. The house she lived in was not a place of warmth, but one where silence often felt safer than speaking.
If she were discovered, she knew the response would not be kind. Mockery would come first, followed by remarks that would linger long after the moment had passed.
So she chose isolation, stitching in quiet corners, listening for footsteps, and hiding every trace of her work whenever necessary.
Memories That Refused to Fade
Each stitch became more than a simple motion. It was a way of holding on to something that felt like it was slipping away.
There were nights when she pressed the fabric close, breathing in a scent that brought back memories of guidance and reassurance. She remembered steady hands guiding her own at the sewing machine, offering patience and calm.
Those moments felt distant now, yet they remained vivid enough to give her strength.