Threads and Needles

Prologue (Part 1): The Last Stitch WARNING: Violence The sun that morning slipped through the cracks of our thin curtains like strands of gold thread. It fell on everything we owned — a chipped teacup, a crooked chair, and the small wooden sewing table my grandfather swore had magic in its grain. To anyone else, our apartment might have looked empty. To me, it was full — full of color, of laughter, of the soft hum that came from Lolo Eduardo’s sewing machine. I sat cross-legged on the floor, the hem of his old shirt draped around me like a cape. The fabric smelled faintly of starch and sunlight, and it scratched at my knees when I shifted, but I didn’t mind. He had given me a box of coloring pencils that morning, twelve of them, though two were already worn down to stubs. Still, it felt like treasure. “Every artist starts with twelve colors,” he said, smiling as if the world had never taken a thing from him. “It’s not how many shades you have, apo, but what you dare to make of them.” I nodded, pretending to understand. In truth, I was only five and knew little about daring or the world. But his voice made everything sound possible — like each word was a stitch that kept the fabric of our lives from coming apart. The scent of fabric and coffee filled the air, wrapping around me like a blanket. He was working on a client’s dress — the last one before the rent came due, though he never said that part out loud. I could tell, though. I always could. Lolo stitched slowly, like each pull of the thread was a prayer whispered between the teeth of the sewing machine. The rhythm of it — the small metallic click, the whisper of cloth — was the sound of home. When he looked at me, his eyes softened. “Pen,” he said, “One day you’ll make something the world will never forget.” I grinned, my little fingers smudged with blue and yellow, holding up my drawing of a gown. The lines were crooked, the colors clumsy, but he nodded as though it was art worthy of Paris. He always did that — made small things feel grand, as though my dreams were silk instead of scrap. Then he leaned closer and said something I didn’t understand, not then anyway: “Dreams are like stitches, apo. They hurt sometimes. But they hold you together.” I tilted my head in confusion as Lolo Eduardo continued sewing the dress. “Lolo, dreams make you happy, right? Why are you saying they hurt us?” He paused for a moment, his hand frozen mid-stitch, needle glinting in the light. Then he smiled and shook his head. “You will understand at the right time, apo.” I pouted, tracing invisible lines on the floor with my pencil. “I don’t want dreams that hurt.” He chuckled softly, the sound warm and low, like the hum of his machine. “Ah, but those are the dreams worth having. The ones that ask you to be brave.” The radio on the counter crackled faintly; an old tune played — one of those songs about love and luck that grown-ups liked to dance to in their heads. Outside, someone was selling pandesal, calling out in the distance. The world, for that moment, was gentle and whole. But even then, something in Lolo’s eyes seemed distant — like he was thinking of something he couldn’t say. His hands worked faster, the fabric gliding through his fingers as though he were racing time itself. I didn’t know that this would be the last morning I’d see him smile. The needle clicked and hissed; the smell of iron and oil lingered in the air. I started humming to match the rhythm of his stitching. For a few moments, we were both lost in the music of it — two artists, one small and barefoot, one weathered by years, both building dreams out of thread. — Lolo Eduardo and I went to the mall that day because he had received a large commission to make dresses for a wedding. It was rare — people in our neighborhood usually came for small repairs, patching torn hems or resizing uniforms. But this one was special. The client had paid him in full, and he said it was enough to treat us both. He planned to buy me my very own fashion-design materials — a sewing kit, colored art pencils, a sketchbook, and even some fabrics. He said it was time I stopped borrowing his dull scissors and the old threads that broke after every few stitches. He knew that I wanted to become a fashion designer like him. He always said I had “the eyes for beauty,” whatever that meant. I just knew I loved the way fabrics moved, the way colors blended, and how a plain piece of cloth could become something that made people stand taller. As we walked through the mall, my small hand tucked into his, I looked around in awe. The place was enormous — polished floors that reflected our shadows, mannequins in bright dresses standing like queens behind glass. I pressed my nose against one display and whispered, “Someday, they’ll wear my designs here, Lo.” He chuckled softly. “Someday, they will. And when they do, don’t forget to sign your name big, ha? So the world remembers who stitched the dream.” His voice was proud but quiet, and for a moment, I thought I saw something wistful in his smile — like a shadow stitched behind his eyes. We stopped at a*****e that smelled faintly of leather and perfume. The lights sparkled above bolts of fabric stacked like rainbows. I ran my hands over them — silk, chiffon, cotton, satin — each one singing a different song to my fingertips. “Which one do you like?” he asked. “All of them,” I said without hesitation. He laughed, the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads because it was so full of life. “That’s my girl.” He ended up buying almost everything I pointed at — a small sewing kit with shiny new needles, a thick sketchbook, and a pack of pencils with gold lettering that said Dream, Draw, Design. It felt like the universe itself had written them for me. “Lo! You don’t have to buy that many materials,” I said, my voice caught between guilt and excitement. “I don’t even know how to sew properly yet. You should use that money for your fabrics, not give it all to me.” But he shook his head and smiled, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. “Pen, listen. A real designer doesn’t wait until she’s ready. She starts before she knows how — that’s how she learns. Besides,” he added, eyes softening, “This is not spending. It’s planting.” “Planting?” I tilted my head. He nodded. “Yes. I’m planting your dream today. And one day, it will bloom into something even I couldn’t imagine.” His words made my heart flutter. I didn’t understand everything he said, but it felt important — sacred even. As we left the store, he told me stories of his youth — how he used to design gowns for beauty queens, how he’d once been invited to Milan and Paris to showcase his creations. My eyes widened as he spoke about the bright lights, the elegant runways, the cities that smelled of coffee, rain, and ambition. “Milan,” he said, smiling to himself. “The city where fabric dances. And Paris… ah, Paris. That’s where I met people who treated design like poetry.” I stared at him in awe. “Then, Lo, how did we end up here?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. He blinked — once, twice — then gave a small, tired smile. “Sometimes, life unravels your best stitches, anak. But you just keep sewing.” I frowned, unsatisfied with the answer. “But… you said your designs were famous. You said you went to London and Paris. Why aren’t you rich like the people on TV?” He stopped walking for a moment, his hand tightening gently around mine. The crowd moved around us — mothers with shopping bags, couples laughing, the distant buzz of a fountain nearby. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “Because not everyone in this world plays fair, Pen. And sometimes, no matter how good your work is, someone can still take it all away.” I didn’t understand, not fully. To me, the world still seemed fair — where effort led to reward, and kindness was enough to keep bad things away. When I tried to ask again, he chuckled and ruffled my hair. “Ay, enough questions. You’ll wrinkle your forehead before you turn ten.” He winked. “Come. Let’s buy ice cream before your brain overheats.” We walked toward the food court, his laughter trailing behind him like a familiar melody. I followed, clutching my bag of art supplies as if it were treasure. At the ice cream stand, he ordered two cones — chocolate for me, mango for himself. He said mango was the color of sunshine, and every designer needed a bit of it in her palette. I licked my ice cream carefully, watching him from across the table. The fluorescent lights above us reflected in his glasses, and for the first time, I noticed how tired his hands looked — calloused, lined, but gentle. The hands that stitched beauty into existence now trembled slightly as he lifted his cone. “Lo?” I asked softly. “Are you okay?” He smiled, as he always did. “Always, apo. Always.” But I caught it — the pause before he answered, the way his eyes flicked toward the glass doors, scanning, cautious. I didn’t know what he was afraid of then. Later that night, I would understand. But at that moment, everything still felt safe. The mall lights shimmered like constellations on the floor. The air smelled of sugar and fabric and love. When we went home, he placed my new materials on the table, arranging them like relics. “These will be the first tools of your dream,” he said. “Take care of them.” I nodded solemnly, promising I would. He kissed my forehead and turned off the lights. As I drifted to sleep, I imagined the world he’d told me about — Paris, Milan, London — places stitched together with hope and gold. I didn’t know that by the next night, all of it, the laughter, the stories, the light, would unravel.