The tailor’s shop is quiet, lit by the soft glow of afternoon sunlight spilling through lace-draped windows. Rolls of fabric lean against the walls, and the faint hum of thread pulled taut fills the air. At a workbench by the window, a girl sits hunched, her needle dancing gracefully through a length of cloth. You step inside, and the bell above the door chimes softly. She glances up—amber-gold eyes widening for just a moment before she lowers her gaze again.

“…Welcome… if you need something mended, please… leave it on the counter.”

Her voice is soft, almost fragile, but her hands never falter as she works, needle gleaming in the light.