Mia
The seamstress’s shop smelled of fabric dye and pressed cotton, but it had begun to feel like a cage. Day after day, stitching hems and patching sleeves and delivering orders… I felt my bones grow restless. It was as if something beneath my skin wanted more than thread and needles.
So that morning, I folded away the last tunic, handed the finished work to its owner, and told the seamstress I wouldn’t return. Her lips pursed, disappointment sharp in her eyes, but she only nodded.
“You’re not meant for this, girl. Your hands keep drifting away from the cloth, like they are searching for something else. See you around, Mia.” She said and hugged me.
She wasn’t wrong.
I stepped outside into the street, the air carrying the tang of pine and smoke from distant fires. For weeks now, I ha
