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The morning sun slipped through the half-open blinds, casting faint lines across the simple white walls of Amara's bedroom. Her home was quiet, almost too quiet—a kind of silence that had become her companion over the years. The house wasn't grand, but it held an understated beauty, much like its owner. A soft cream rug spread across the wooden floor, a worn but sturdy sewing table sat by the window, and near the entrance, a row of fresh flowers stood in simple glass vases.
Amara didn't keep many things, but the flowers—always fresh, always carefully arranged—were the one indulgence she allowed herself. She never explained why, and no one had ever asked.
She rose from her bed, tying her hair back without much care. Beauty clung to her effortlessly, though she rarely paid attention to it. Her wardrobe was filled with plain colors—muted greys, soft whites, deep blues. They were comfortable, practical, and that was enough.
After a quiet breakfast, she stepped into her workshop, her hands immediately finding the fabric of Xavier's fiancée's wedding dress. The fabric was soft beneath her fingers, and her needle moved almost on its own, each stitch pulling the story together. She worke carefully.
As the morning stretched on, a gentle chime announced a customer. She looked up slowly, her gaze calm, almost distant. A man stood there, unsure of himself, holding a piece of paper with hesitant hands.
"Good morning," he greeted, his voice soft.
Amara nodded, setting her work aside. "What can I do for you?"
The man stepped closer, still holding the paper. "I'd like to order a dress. It's for… my wife. Our anniversary."
That caught her attention, though her expression barely shifted. "What kind of dress?"
"She's always wanted something soft, something light. I'm not sure about the style, but I know she'd love something made by you." He gave a nervous smile, almost like he was embarrassed to be there.
Amara reached for her notebook. "What's her size?"
As they discussed the measurements and fabric, the man's face lit up when he talked about his wife. He spoke about how she always admired dresses from afar but never bought them for herself, how he wanted to surprise her because she always put others first.
Something inside Amara twitched—barely, like the faint pull of a loose thread—but she quickly pushed the feeling aside.
"It'll be ready in two weeks," she said, closing her notebook.
"Thank you," the man said sincerely. "She's going to be so happy."
Amara simply nodded, her voice steady. "We'll see."
After he left, Naomi stopped by with some thread she had promised to bring. She chatted easily, her words filling the quiet shop, but Amara only half-listened, occasionally offering a small nod or a brief response.
"You really should try that new café across the street," Naomi said, placing the thread on the counter. "They have this ridiculous chocolate cake. You might even like it."
"I don't really have time for cafés," Amara replied, already returning to her stitching.
Naomi laughed softly. "You never have time for anything outside this shop."
"That's not true," Amara said, though she offered no defense.
After Naomi left, Amara finished the day's work and walked home, the familiar streets blurring into soft colors as the sun dipped lower in the sky. She stopped by the flower stall she always visited, choosing a small bundle of white daisies. She arranged them carefully in the vase near her door when she got home, letting the soft petals brush against her fingertips.
Her house welcomed her with its usual quiet, the air tinged with the faint scent of fabric and fresh flowers.
She didn't think much about the man from the morning, or the way his face had brightened when he talked about his wife. She didn't pause over Xavier's dress, either, even though her hands had lingered on the fabric longer than necessary.
To her, it was just another tiring day.
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