In the city of Lin, there was a shop that opened only when the moon drowned in clouds. Most nights, the street where it appeared was just another narrow lane in the old quarter, its cobblestones slick with mist, its lamps sputtering weakly against the dark. But on certain nights—nights when the sky sealed itself in heavy cloud and the moon’s silver was smothered—the shop would be there. Not built of brick or timber, but of shadow and glimmers, its edges shifting as though it were only partially real. Its sign was small, swinging on chains that made no sound. The lettering, in a style no printer used anymore, read simply:
Mending for the Misplaced
The door beneath the sign was always slightly ajar, as if waiting for someone who had not yet arrived. Lora found it on the night her brother vanished.
She had been searching for hours, running through the narrow alleys, calling his name until her throat burned. The Hollow Guard had taken him—she’d seen them, their armor dark as pitch, their faces hidden behind masks of hammered bronze. They had dragged him from their home in the quiet hours just before dawn, leaving only the sound of boots on stone and the torn sleeve of his coat snagged in the doorway.
The city was vast and cruel, and when the Hollow Guard took someone, they rarely came back. Her legs ached, her breath misting in the damp air. And then, between one blink and the next, the street she was running down seemed to lengthen. Buildings she didn’t remember lined the way, leaning inward like they were listening. And there, at the far end, the shop glowed faintly in the darkness. The air around it smelled faintly of candlewax and rain-wet iron.
Inside, the light was dim but steady, coming from a series of oil lamps that burned with a flame the color of deep amber. Shelves held boxes of every size, stacked in perfect, almost impossible symmetry. And in the center of the room stood the tailor. She was tall, her hair bound back with a ribbon that shimmered like trapped starlight. The skin of her hands was pale, almost translucent, and in her fingers she held a needle made of black stone—obsidian, sharp enough to split air. Beside her lay spools of thread, each one glowing faintly with its own hue: gold like dawn, green like the bottom of the sea, red like fresh blood.
“I don’t sew fabric,”
The tailor said without looking up. Her voice was low, smooth as polished bone.
“I stitch fates.”
Lora clutched the bundle she carried tighter.
“Then you can help me.”
She stepped forward and placed the torn coat on the counter. It was her brother’s, the dark blue one he wore in the winters, frayed at the cuffs but still warm. Now the sleeve hung ragged, torn where the Hollow Guard’s gauntlet had seized him. The fabric still smelled faintly of him—soap, smoke, and the faintest trace of salt from their last walk by the harbor.
“Bring him back,
Lora demanded. The tailor looked at her for the first time, her eyes a color that was not quite grey, not quite silver, as if they reflected whatever they saw. Slowly, she smiled. The smile was thin and precise, and something about it made Lora’s stomach twist.
“I can’t unmake what’s been done,”
Th tailor said.
“But I can sew you a path to him. The thread will find him. The stitches will bind him to that path.”
Lora’s heart surged with hope.
“Then do it. Please.”
“But the price,”
The tailor said, tilting her head slightly,
“weighs heavy.”
Lora didn’t ask what it was. She should have. The tailor took up the coat and threaded her needle with a strand of something pale and glowing faintly—like the memory of moonlight. Then she gestured for Lora to come closer.
“Hold out your hand,” the tailor said.
When the first stitch pierced her palm, Lora gasped. She had expected pain, but it was not pain exactly—more like a sharp pulling, as though something inside her was being drawn out through the thread. The sensation was strange, unsettling, but she did not pull away.
With every pull of the needle, she felt lighter. Not in body, but in self. The warmth of her childhood summers—the smell of warm bread from her mother’s kitchen—thinned like mist and vanished. The sound of her own laughter as a child, chasing her brother through the long grass, faded until she couldn’t remember what it had sounded like. The day she’d first fallen in love—standing by the river, sunlight tangled in her hair—slipped away as though it had belonged to someone else entirely. Still, the needle moved, steady and sure.
The tailor hummed softly as she worked, a tune that Lora couldn’t quite follow. Each stitch seemed to pull the coat closer to wholeness, the ragged edges smoothing, the tear vanishing under a line of perfect seam. But with each stitch, Lora’s mind felt emptier. The world around her grew sharper, colder, stripped of its softer colors.
By the time the final knot was tied, Lora could no longer recall her mother’s face. She remembered having one—but not the details. The tailor laid the coat on the counter. It was perfect, every fiber aligned as though it had never been torn.
By dawn, her brother stood in the doorway. His clothes were disheveled, his hair tangled, his eyes wide with confusion. But he was alive. He looked at her, searching for an explanation, but Lora only stared back. Something in her knew she should be happy—should be weeping with relief—but the feeling was muted, distant, like hearing music from a street away.
She knew he mattered, but she could no longer remember why.
Her brother stepped forward, saying her name like a question. She forced a smile, though it felt strange on her face. The tailor rolled up the leftover thread with careful fingers, her expression unreadable.
“Always more lost things to mend,
She murmured, almost to herself. When Lora and her brother stepped back into the street, the shop was gone. The mist had lifted, and the sky was streaked with pale morning light.
Years later, Lora would sometimes see her brother’s face and feel a hollow space where something important should have been. She would stand in her small apartment, holding a cup of tea gone cold, trying to summon the sound of her own laughter and failing. And somewhere, in some hidden street of Lin, the tailor’s sign still swung in silence, waiting for the next cloud-drowned night.
