A Hand-Me-Down Robe {WT}

Some of the shop sewing machines have more features than Dy knows what to do with: dials and levers and free-moving arms, or color screens for embroidery design and a delicate computerized arm to put picture to thread with no more input than changing a spool now and then. The type they rent time on instead looks clunky in comparison, but all they need is something that stitches quickly and steadily enough to make the trip worthwhile. That's a fragile balance, especially on those long weeks when all Dy wants after shift change is to curl up at home where no one can see them or speak to them; they make it work, though, cutting patterns and basting at home where time is cheap and doing heavier stitching at the shop where they can spare their hands.

Street noise and the familiar peal of Frane's stock cashier greeting, more than any noise from the door itself, announce someone stepping in. Tucked away in the back alcove and absorbed in the hem under their hands, Dy hears all of this with half an ear at most—which is still enough for them to blink, startled, when a voice they don't recognize says, "I'm looking for Dy."

As long as Dy pays promptly and keeps a regular appointment, the owners don't mind letting them give people the shop as a point of contact—for free advertising as much as out of good will, no doubt—but that usually involves using it as a meeting place, not being found here. Not, they muse as they release the pedal and brace their hands against the table to stand, that they have room to complain about what might be an unexpected order, not with a new section of roofing to replace and their recent resignation to needing glasses sooner rather than later. "I was told that they may be able to mend something for me."

They sit back down, hard.

This isn't the first time a stranger has referred to them like that, and it won't be the last—they wouldn't want it to be the last, not after eight months of knowing that life doesn't have to grate like a misplayed chord. Something in them flinches anyway from the idea of being known, like stepping into sunlight after a season in shade and finding it too harsh, or the first time Lin said something quiet and thoughtful about their mother and they realized he had been paying attention to their not-so-empty anxious rambling all along—like they moved too quickly, or had never been able to move quickly enough, and rammed a bruise they spent a lifetime pretending not to have against metal. Other people can do it so easily, and Lamia couldn't—all those years, Dy couldn't—

It makes them want to go home, in a way that hasn't been possible for years and never will be again.

"Dy!" Frane calls from the register. "You hearing this?"

"Okay. Right," they whisper, then take a steadying breath and raise their voice to call back, "I am!"

At the front of the store Frane waves them toward the only stranger not already fussing with bolts or buttons on an aisle, a kid a head taller than them but roughly a decade younger. They waggle their fingers at Frane in acknowledgement, then offer the new arrival a smile, absently taking in his casual outfit and the bundle of fabric in his hands as they do. "I'm Dy. I needed a moment to finish something, sorry—what can I help you with?"



research on how sewing machines work was briefly arrested when I went to some sewing supplies site and sorted the machines by price to see what the fanciest vs. beginner ones do and promptly had a heart attack at the $5,999.99 label on a quilting machine. I still don't really understand what that one does but it has many, many parts.