9
873 Words
"Do you want to see it all turn to ash? Completely gone right in front of your own eyes, Aria?"
Aileen’s voice screeched, bouncing off the damp, dusty walls of the school storage room. In her hand, a gas lighter flickered weakly. The flame danced, a mere few centimeters away from the pile of fabric scraps and the roll of ivory silk in the corner of the room.
My heart felt as if it were about to burst out of my chest. That wasn't just fabric. That was the last piece of Grandma’s inheritance. The only reason I still felt like I had a 'home' in this world.
"Don't, Aileen... I beg you," I whispered hoarsely. I no longer cared how cold the concrete felt against my knees as I knelt. I reached out a trembling hand, desperately trying to shield my treasure. "Take anything else, but not that."
Aileen scoffed, her eyes gleaming with a ruthless ambition that sent shivers down my spine. "Alasher's grandfather is holding a 'Pratama Young Designer' competition here, Aria. The winner will be taken to the central fashion show. And you know what? Asher is expecting so much from me! He thinks I'm the genius 'Ai' he remembers from back then!"
She threw a blank sketchbook at me. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Create a design. The craziest, most unique one that has never existed before. Right now!"
I stared at the notebook, then up at her. "But that's my work, Aileen... Asher will think it’s yours—"
Click.
The flame on the lighter grew larger. Aileen brought it closer to the edge of my ivory silk. The scent of singed fabric began to sting my nose.
"Choose, Aria. Lose a single idea, or lose all of your memories this very night?"
*
(ARIA'S POV)
That night, only the ticking of the wall clock echoed in my ears like a mockery. I sat curled up in the corner of my room, beneath a desk lamp whose light was beginning to dim. My back ached terribly, but my fingers could not stop.
I took a deep breath, enduring the sharp pain in my fingertips, which were still wrapped in bandages. Every single time the needle pierced the delicate organza fabric, it felt as though I were stabbing my own heart. I wasn't just sewing a dress. I was stitching in all of my pain, all of the longing Asher had tossed into the trash, and all of the humiliation they had forced down my throat.
I used the 'Hidden Rose Stitch' technique. It was Grandma's secret. The stitching of the petals wouldn't be visible if you just glanced at it. You had to view it from a specific angle to find the blooming rose hidden beneath the folds of the fabric. A token of love I intentionally concealed.
"I'm sorry, Asher," I whispered to the silent gown, which was now damp with the drops of my tears. "I gave my soul to you, even if you will eventually worship it as someone else's."
*
The next day, Garuda High School practically exploded. Everyone was staring at their phone screens. The official account of the Pratama Group had just uploaded the announcement of the design competition winner.
The photo went viral within minutes. A magnificent gown titled "The Silent Heart." There, the winner's name was clearly stated: Aileen Maheswari.
I stood behind the corridor wall, hiding like a thief. From a distance, I saw Asher. He was laughing out loud, wrapping his arm around Aileen's shoulder with immense pride. His eyes sparkled—the exact kind of sparkle I had always hoped would be directed at me.
"I had a feeling you could do it, Ai," Asher’s voice sounded so genuine that it felt like a blade slicing through my chest. "The stitching detail... this is exactly like the way you used to fix my toys. You really haven't changed, you're still a genius."
Aileen offered a coy smile, resting her head on Asher’s shoulder as if she were the rightful owner of his world. "I only did this for you, Asher."
I closed my eyes tightly, leaning my forehead against the cold corridor wall. It stung so badly. My soul had just been robbed in broad daylight, and the person I loved most was the one harboring the thief.
However, in a luxurious office overlooking the entire city, an old man with gold-rimmed glasses—Asher's grandfather—was not smiling. He zoomed in on the photo detailing the gown's stitching on a massive monitor screen.
His wrinkled finger touched the screen, right on the portion of the Hidden Rose Stitch. His eyes narrowed with deep suspicion.
"This technique..." the Grandfather muttered, his voice heavy and filled with doubt. "There is only one bloodline in this country that can create a hidden rose stitch with this level of detail. And the Aileen Maheswari I met yesterday... she didn't even know how to thread a needle."
He firmly pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Check the CCTV or anyone who has entered and left the Maheswari estate over the last two nights. Find out who was actually holding the needle for this dress. Now!"
- Writer
