The Lady Cobbler

The Lady in the Light (Raw Version) The town always watched her. Every morning. In her cream dress, scarf tucked neatly, heels clicking on cobblestone, she walked like she belonged in a painting. People nodded, some whispered polite greetings, some stared. She didn’t care. She never smiled too wide. Too many eyes. Too many judgments. She had learned long ago that the less they knew, the safer she was. By day, she was the lady everyone admired—elegant, untouchable, perfect. But by night… by night, she was the cobbler. Her workshop was tucked in an alley no one bothered to notice. Small, cramped, filled with the smell of leather, polish, and the faint smoke of a dying candle. Shoes lined every wall: boots, heels, sandals, scuffed loafers. Each one told a s********e happy. Some miserable. Some broken. And she fixed them all, quietly, carefully, almost like stitching together pieces of her own life. She passed the fountain today, and something felt off. A man stood across the street, coat collar up, hat shadowing his eyes. He didn’t move when she looked at him. He didn’t even blink, just stared. Her stomach knotted. She slowed her steps. He melted into the crowd, and yet she felt him—like a shadow that had followed her for miles. She shook her head. Paranoia. Probably. Everyone looked at her like that sometimes. Everyone wanted something. Turning the corner, she picked up her pace. Her scarf flapped behind her, a soft slap against her back. The workshop door came into view. Safe. She slipped inside, locking it quickly. The smell of leather made her shoulders relax. Here, she controlled everything. No eyes, no whispers. Just leather, thread, and quiet. She knelt by a pair of worn boots, fingers brushing the frayed seams. Needle in hand, she stitched and pressed the leather, listening to the soft pop of the candle flame. There was rhythm in this, calm in this. Outside, life buzzed—carts clattering, children laughing, merchants shouting—but in here, time bent to her will. Then. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her heart jumped. Not fast, but a steady, irritating thrum in her chest. A visitor? Rare. Unplanned. She peered through the little window. Nothing. Empty alley. Morning sun stretching long shadows. She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. Probably just a loose shutter. Still, the feeling stayed. That sense of watching. Something—or someone—had noticed her. Something was coming. Hours passed, stitching, shaping, molding the boots until they looked new again. She ran her fingers along the seams, satisfied. Almost alive. Almost like she hadn’t just fixed shoes, but a tiny piece of the world. She smiled faintly. Quietly. And then the bell jingled. Sharp, unexpected. She froze. A small package sat on the floor. Brown paper, rough string. No note. No clue. She knelt, heart thumping faster than it should. Carefully, she untied it. Inside, black leather gloves. Soft, expensive. And a folded piece of paper. "We know who you are. Stop hiding." Her fingers tightened around the gloves. The words were simple, short. But heavy. Dangerous. Someone had been watching her, waiting for the right moment. She scanned the alley again. Empty. Silent. Perfectly normal morning. Her reflection in the polished leather of the boots caught her eye. Green eyes staring back. Calm. Calculating. The lady. The cobbler. Both. And both ready. She set the gloves aside. Thought briefly of the stranger she saw earlier. The one who made her stomach tighten. Was it him? Or someone else? Someone worse? She didn’t know. She didn’t need to. One thing was clear: her life had changed. This was no longer just about keeping a secret. This was about survival. About staying one step ahead. About never letting anyone see the real her—unless she chose to. A tiny smirk tugged at her lips. Let them come. Let them try. They had no idea what they were stepping into. Because the lady in the light, the quiet cobbler in the shadows… she was ready.