The sewing room is bigger than I expect, bright as a wardroom at noon, daylight pouring through tall windows and pooling on the floors. Light everywhere—too much. Wolves aren’t meant for this kind of brightness. It eats shadows; safety.
The air is heavy with the scent of starch and linen. Fabric bolts and unfinished uniforms crowd the tables along the walls. Dressmaker’s dummies stand in formation, rigid, like silent guards with hollow chests. Nothing in here seems soft or forgiving.
A woman looks up, gray hair put up in a bun as tight as rope, eyes sharp behind her round glasses. She lets her tape measure coil into her hand as we walk in, waiting.
“Mr. Callahan.” Her voice tells me she remembers every student's name, every button on their shirts. “What brings you here outside of schedu
