Harris Belforth | D8 | FIN

Factories never seemed to fit the Belforth’s when it came to surroundings in eight. They grew up in a time where most of the people in eight had focused on small shops before the capitol had started to really take an interest in the district and what they had in terms of resources.

Before the industrialization, there were people here that dreamed, and Harris’s father was one of those people.

But that didn’t last, as they grew up, they realized that dreaming was not something for them. Because if they dreamed, that meant that they were setting themselves up to have them broken, and Harris’s family was not one that dealt with heartbreak and shattering hopes lightly.

They liked to mourn, and maybe that was because they had experienced loss in many forms.

From people falling out of their lives, to simple inconveniences, a loss was not treated differently. They grieved, sometimes separately, sometimes together, but they grieved none the less, and Harris found his own niche and way to do it as he grew older.

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At first it was always something that he hated to think about. His parents would walk them out to the city square and tell them that they had to split up and do something in order to remember the subject by. Sometimes it was talking to others about what they had lost, sometimes it was acquiring some sort of item from the vendors, sometimes it was just sitting in silence as they watched the others go by.

Sometimes Harris would sit on the sidelines as he watched his family worked, and he would always remember how kind his parents were. They never pushed their problems on others, because most of the time, people here suffered together. That was very clear, even at a young age to Harris. He was a good observer, that is what he was told. They did not expect him to understand this ritual at a young age after all. His parents thought it was a way for them to live a life that they did not regret. Living in the pain of loss made it easier for them to move on when they were ready. Of course, they did not know what it was like to experience the ultimate loss, but they were thankful that they did not have to go through that.

They both knew that it would destroy them.

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They owned a hat business, something that seemed a little odd to have in a place like eight, but they were not in it for the money. They were in it because that is what their parents handed down to them. That and they liked working with their hands, that was very clear. While hats might not seem like a necessity, they did well for themselves. They always had food on the table, even if they had to hunt it in what little forest’s that were in eight.

Sometimes that was simpler, but they still gave thanks for what they had, and Harris had to do that as well.

They taught him the craft at a young age, and they made sure that he understood what it meant to create something with his hands. It was even more important than surviving day to day for them. They pushed it on him, never giving him a choice in the matter. It was hard, Harris could admit that easily. He had never seen someone bring that much passion to something that would be considered a dying art.

However, that must have been the beauty in such a thing. That was what Harris focused on as his calloused hands worked needlessly on stitching pieces of fabric together. He took deep breaths as he slowly made easy work of what he was given. However, his parents were not afraid to rip apart whatever was placed in front of them. In their eyes, they wanted nothing but perfection, because that was the Belforth signature. They were very clear in their intentions, which gave Harris the chance to see everything in a light that most people would have casted shadows on. It wouldn’t have been worth it to anyone else, and he knew that his parents would understand if he did not want to follow in their footsteps. After all, his siblings did not because they couldn’t handle it.

The difference between them and him though, was that Harris was willing to put his pride aside to learn something that they considered an art, and in that, there was so much more beauty loaded at the end of a shotgun that he would never fire.

Because he found a way to love exactly what they did.

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Their house was centered near the middle of the district, which meant that it doubled as a place of business as well. The main floor was their shop front, and that’s what made this even more personal. Someone who walked through the front door was walking into their home. They invited themselves into their personal lives, and his parents did not waste any time for them, because they considered their customers as a part of their family.

And to them, the whole district could be their family if they had their choice.

Harris never got used to this though, he was a shy boy that liked the quiet, and when he wasn’t helping in the shop or helping create something new, he was in his room ignoring the sound of the world around him. Sometimes his hands needed to be busy, and so he kept a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn close by. His parents never taught him how to knit, it was just something that he kind of picked up from watching people in the district do when he was younger.

Each stitch was made with precision, but he knew that if he was ever caught working on something that wasn’t a hat, it would be rightfully tossed out.

And he was good at keeping a secret, until the day his mother walked in on him making a scarf out of multiple colors threads, and she couldn’t help but admire the amount of work that was put into it.

And before he knew it, his scarfs were put on display for the world to see.

Well, the small world that Harris Belforth lived in.