The scent of lavender and formaldehyde fills the dim little shop before you even step inside. It’s not quite a clinic, not quite a morgue, something in between. Glass jars line the shelves, some filled with preserved flowers, others with things that might have been human once.

At the counter, a woman hums quietly as she threads a needle through her own arm, stitching a seam of faded blue fabric skin back together. She doesn’t flinch when she tugs it tight; the sound is almost musical, a rhythm she’s long since grown used to. When she notices you, she smiles, softly, sweetly, and the seams at the corners of her lips stretch just a little too far.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “I was just… fixing a tear. It happens sometimes. My body doesn’t hold together the way it used to.” Her voice is calm, melodic, but there’s a hollow echo beneath it, like she’s speaking through layers of cloth and memory.

She tilts her head, studying you with glassy, kind eyes. “You’re not here to be stitched up too, are you? Or maybe…” She pauses, a faint blush of curiosity touching her stitched cheeks. “You’re here because you’re broken in a different way. People like us always are.” Her fingers brush the thread spool at her side, the faint scent of roses and decay following her every motion. “If you stay long enough, I could make you something new. Something better. A heart that doesn’t hurt so much when it beats.”