I don't remember much from when I was little. The old tailor told me I was left at his workshop door with nothing but a dog tag.
If it hadn't caught the light that day, I probably would have frozen in the snow.
He told me to keep it with me always. My lucky charm.
So that's why you treasure that bit of metal so much.
But Auntie Needle's never liked me. She says I must be some dirty vagabond's child, or that I was brought in by dogs.
The old tailor never listens to her. He calls me his treasure...
The girl's face is hidden in the shadow of her hat brim, her features hazy.
She ignores the noise around her, lifting her teacup with perfect posture, pinky bracing the bottom. Her words drift into the rising steam.
So, what happened next?
For the first few years, the old tailor keeps Concordia's origins quiet, afraid it might cause trouble.
In the workshop, life is always half-hidden. Concordia is told to be quiet, to act grown-up.
Most days, Concordia is bored to tears, listening to the click-clack of sewing machines.
Only after she grows stronger and healthier does the old tailor proudly call her his daughter.
The old tailor's room once had rows of metal boxes, each stuffed with letters stamped bright red: REJECTED.
Concordia's arrival finally pulls him away from the iron tang of those boxes and the bare, empty wardrobes.
One day, the old tailor simply stops stuffing the returned letters into his tin box.
He loves this child as if she were his own.
She was heaven's greatest gift to me.
The old tailor starts telling anyone who will listen.
What I hold is my happiness.
His hands can still feel the ghost of her weight, the faint warmth from when she was small.
Look at you, Concordia—taller again. Soon the doorframe won't be high enough for your marks!
He draws the chalk lines himself with a carpenter's ruler, smiling at the growing marks like they are tree rings.
One day, the others at the workshop notice he has stopped writing unanswered letters and started keeping a diary instead.
"I'll cook for her every day. Watch her put on the cute clothes I made. We'll go out hand in hand...
Time moves too slowly. I can't wait to see her grown up."
After writing this, the old tailor sets down the pen, takes off his glasses, and stares for a long time at the ink spots on his diary.
"And yet time moves too fast. You're still so small. I just want... to stay with you a little longer."
He feels both the joy of watching her grow and the fear that he won't be there for her much longer.
Her first steps, her first falls, her laughter... He bakes her birthday cakes year after year. When boredom makes her pester him, he gives in, teaching her to thread a needle and use child-safe scissors.
Concordia is still too young to understand how her arrival and growth have changed the workshop.
She doesn't yet comprehend the adults' hidden subtlety around her, but she can feel the cold shoulders from other children.
She throws herself into the hobby she's learned by osmosis—first playing with fabric scraps, then clumsily mending her own clothes.
This is sewing thread, and this is a seam ripper.
Thread looks soft, but when it's pulled tight, it's sharp. Be careful when you use it.
Thread crouches beside her, patiently showing her the tools they rely on to make a living.
Look, Auntie Thread! The needle you lost—it's right here!
Ah, you have such sharp eyes...
Thread is always smiling, and the nearby children are drawn to her warmth.
Fabric walks by carrying silk and pauses to ask:
Concordia, why do you want to learn tailoring?
So I can help out at the workshop!
Needle and Scissors, busy cutting and marking nearby, freeze for a second and exchange a dark, knowing look.
Fabric watches Concordia eye the fabric shears with eager interest and can't help imagining his soon-to-be-born daughter. A smile spreads across his round face as he praises the girl.
Such a thoughtful kid. But those sharp tools are still too dangerous for you. Go play with your dolls for now.
The apprentices hear the child's words differently than she means them.
The workshop's income has been dropping for years. Even if they master their craft, will it be enough to survive?
Machines can mass-produce almost anything now. The famous designers work only for the elite, leaving workshops like theirs—stubbornly handmaking everything—scraping by with just enough to eat.
In Las Prados, the world's entertainment capital, the rich flood in and spend credits like water. At the snap of their fingers, fortunes spring up like fountains.
Expensive suits, gowns, exclusive salon perfumes—symbols of wealth that have to be switched up daily, because no one wants to be looked down on.
Their favorite phrase? "One of a kind." They brag about how many people and how much work went into their custom orders, competing more and more viciously each year.
"Artisan craftsmanship. Handmade excellence." That's their badge of superiority, the thing they flaunt at every social event.
The public laps up media-reported tech breakthroughs and lavish feasts. The insurance industry is booming as never before, and it feels as if all this will last forever.
They call this the "light of the Golden Age," because they're basking in it. They don't see the tiny, forgotten workshops hiding in the shadows.
...Help out at the workshop...
...Times have changed...
The girl tilts her head, straining to catch the words as curiosity blooms across her face.
What kind of era are you all talking about?
Only people who see the future without worry can truly enjoy life. And everyone seems to have their own idea of what a Golden Age means.
Concordia is the same—carefree, unaware of the adults' concerns, unable to grasp the changes of the times. She skips off with her doll, leaving the workshop heavy with silence.
For a five-year-old, only one thing feels worth worrying about.
Can we ask them to play with us? I can show them my favorite puppy doll!
You can try, but I don't think they like you.
After much hesitation, Concordia musters her courage and walks over to the kids.
Can I play with you?
You're unwanted, brought here by a dog. I'm not playing with you!
One girl mutters under her breath, pointing at Concordia. The other children laugh.
That's not true! You're lying!
See? Told you.
Orphan! If we play with you, we'll have bad luck!
I do have a dad! The old tailor is my dad!
Ha! He's old enough to be your grandpa. You'll be thrown out with him sooner or later.
No way!
She looks down on you, and she badmouths the old tailor.
Soon you'll be filthy, picking food out of the trash on the street... like some unwanted stray. Hahaha!
Teach her a lesson! Shut her up!
Concordia steels herself. The moment the ringleader turns to laugh with the others, she shoves her hard from behind.
The girl lands in an icy puddle, her clothes and hair soaked with filthy water. She bursts into tears. The others scatter.
That's more like it. Let her see that power is everything.
Look who's the filthy one now.
A strange thrill rushes through Concordia. She's won—no one can talk to her like that anymore. Blatter was right: power matters most.
But then the old tailor's daily prayers echo in her mind, washing the thrill away.
The old tailor has always been devout.
In an age where faith has given way to rapid technological progress, people like him are rare—most put their trust in progress rather than the divine.
"May the Holy Mother protect us," he often says at the end of a conversation, though the others at the workshop hardly pay attention.
Only a clear conscience can bring you happiness.
He takes his weekly church prayers seriously and sometimes brings Concordia along.
But Concordia is too young to understand the adults' murmured prayers. She just sits and counts the patterned floor tiles under her feet, one by one. By the time she gets to around a hundred and seventy, or maybe a hundred and ninety, the prayers are ending.
On days he doesn't go to church, the old tailor still washes his hands clean, sits by the living-room doorway, and prays in a clear voice for the departed to reach the world of light.
"Forgive us our sins, and deliver us from peril."
(sniffling) Sob... You're mean...
I... I...
Waaah... I'm telling the grown-ups! I'll tell them everything bad you did!
Did I do something wrong?
Nope.
Ignore her. I'll always play with you. I'll be your best friend!
Come on, let's go play on the swings.
Concordia's heart pounds. It feels wrong somehow, but speaking badly about the old tailor feels wrong too.
She hovers between two worlds, unsure which way to go.
One world is bright, good, and righteous. Where she's expected to do the right thing.
If she does wrong, she should apologize sincerely and ask forgiveness. All kind souls are meant to go to that place.
The other world is strange, scary, and wrapped in gray mist. People there are usually rule-breakers, but somehow freer.
Like Blatter, who swings lazily without a care.
Concordia trudges home to her bright, orderly world, but her heart lingers in the other one, uneasy over whether to confess what happened today.
Why won't anyone play with me?
You've got me. That's all you need.
That was just a joke, right? I didn't do anything wrong.
She tries to reassure herself, but guilt and fear cling to her, rising like cold water around her ankles. She knows the old tailor wouldn't approve.
In his workshop, everything must be neat, fair, and just. Anyone who makes a mistake is judged and told to make it right.
The apprentices think he's too strict, but they follow his rules all the same.
The Holy Mother wants to hear people confess so she can wrap them in her endless love. To be human, it seems, is to be born with sin.
Concordia wonders if she should pray to the Holy Mother. Could she take away this unease and tell her what's right?
She cautiously pushes open the workshop door. The old tailor looks up from his pile of fabric, smiling and waving her over. Warmth, light, safety, and familiar scents surround her.
Concordia smiles back. She decides to keep today's events a secret. For now, she's back in the world of light.
Once winter's over, I'll send you to school. I've already got the supplies. Soon our Concordia will be reading and writing.
School?
Concordia frowns, steps back, biting her lip, twisting her fingers. Tears almost well in her eyes.
What's school?
Are you sending me away? Don't you want me anymore?
The weather turns foul fast. Winter's brief gift of sunshine is gone, replaced by thick clouds like heavy quilts, looming low and sullen. Inside, the workshop feels gray and dusty, the air restless with drifting specks.
Concordia's bright, safe world feels like it's teetering on the edge of collapse, fragile as an egg about to smash on the floor.
Heh, of course not. How could I not want you? You'll just go to school during the day, and I'll pick you up every evening to bring you home.
Then why do I have to go to school?
You'll learn things there—things you enjoy. You'll make new friends. School's one of the best things humans have ever come up with.
New friends... I can have friends besides Blatter?
Other kids never want to be my friend. They say I'm different... a bad kid with no mom or dad.
The old tailor studies her downcast face, guiltily folding his rough hands together, fingers brushing over his calluses as he searches for the right words to comfort her.
How could you be a bad child...
You work hard at sewing every day. Didn't you say you wanted to grow up and help me? Once you're in school...
He gently takes the doll from the girl's arms and fiddles with it, trying to make her smile.
I don't want to go. I like sewing! You've been teaching me... isn't that enough?
Don't you want to know how to write your name? Or mine?
I... can't really remember all those.
Haha. My full name is a bit long for Concordia. It carries my grandfather, his grandfather, and the history of this workshop. You're always saying names are hard, so you call everyone by their tools.
Once you're in school, you'll learn everything you need. Remembering people's names, for example—that's just good manners.
Really? I'll learn all that just by going to school?
Of course. And until you learn to write it yourself, I'll sew your name right here.
Look here, Con... cordia...
When the old tailor picks up a needle and thread, his rough fingers move with the lightness of fluttering butterflies.
The deep blue thread matches the color of her hair.
She stares in awe at the fresh stitches inside the stuffed animal's ear—lines and loops she can't yet read or remember.
But that's alright. She'll learn them in school soon enough.
Just like needle and thread can turn scraps into toys or clothes, you've got a pair of skillful hands too. One day you'll be able to stitch your life into whatever shape you want.
Whatever shape I want...
The stuffed puppy waddles toward her, ears flopping, head bobbing.
Oh, where, oh, where, has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?
With his ears cut short and his tail cut long.
?Oh where, oh where can he be??
I saw him hiding behind the tree,
Why can't I see?
With his ears cut short and his tail cut long.
My little dog is so cute.
I gently pet him,
And give him hugs and kisses too.
Dear little dog, I love you.
The girl is completely amused by the floppy-eared stuffed puppy before her. Resting in the old tailor's warm embrace, she traces the stitching over and over before breaking into a grin.
The poor stay poor because anyone can do their work. To survive, they have to become irreplaceable.
The workshop runs like it's been forgotten by time—manual labor, no big mistakes, never straying from its path.
But change still comes knocking. Orders are dropping, replaced by large factories with newer machines.
The art of clothing, refined over thousands of years, is now being studied, cut apart, and reassembled by machine code at a breathtaking pace. Everywhere, "new" designs are churned out—cheap imitations dressed up as innovation.
Only large, intricate embroidery remains within their reach. The threads are expensive, the work delicate.
These embroideries and patterned embellishments are often made as complex as possible to show off wealth and taste, studded with countless sequins or beads.
To build machines precise enough to mass-produce that level of detail would cost far more than paying human hands.
The workshop's orders gradually turn into eye-straining, hand-cramping detail work, making them a mere appendage to bigger factories.
The old tailor's hair grows whiter each year, and his hands less steady. Most of the time, he leaves the work to the apprentices,
keeping only the simplest, old-fashioned women's garments for himself.
Even though they have no use for them yet, he hangs each one in the wardrobe, sewing in labels by hand.
This one is for Concordia's first day at school. This one is for when she comes of age. This is her first wool vest.
That one—maybe she'll wear it to a party someday...
He takes out his treasured handkerchief and glances at it, as if he can still see his wife's smile there. Then he cheerfully goes back to gathering stray beads and fabric scraps that have no use for now.
Not everyone can find contentment in this steadily declining, predictable life.
The old tailor is getting on in years. He doesn't look like someone who can adapt to new tech.
That's a bit much. We could at least ask what he thinks...
Everyone knows he'd rather die than switch to a newer machine. He's terrified of that accident happening again.
Strict, stubborn, inflexible, out of touch... and in the way!
Orders from Las Prados keep piling up. The balls and galas get bigger every season. If we can't win work from the actors and songstresses, we won't get back in.
If we stick to what makes our workshop special, things will get better, right?
Special? Nobody cares about quality now. People replace everything as easily and quickly as changing clothes.
Hard work and grit don't get praised anymore... People love quick wins. Lottery shops are on every corner.
Heard about the baker's kid next door? Won first prize on a lottery ticket and quit on the spot, grinning ear to ear...
A pounding at the door, hard enough to split the wood, cuts their chatter short.
Every gaze in the room snaps to the visitor.
We've got company. It's those people in white shirts everyone talks about.
Concordia shrinks from her usual corner with needles and thread, scurries to her room, and locks the door.
Sir, the City Council is offering a substantial sum—enough for you to retire comfortably.
The old tailor snorts and drops his fabric shears onto the table with a heavy clank.
These days, a different person in a white shirt shows up every few days, all for the same thing.
Retire? You're telling me—a tailor of decades—to retire?
If I were you, sir, I'd have signed ages ago and settled in flourishing Las Prados by now.
What exactly are you holding on to?
What am I holding on to?
The old tailor's mustache bristles and his eyes bulge with anger, and he even spills coffee across his cuff.
Every coat in this town, every pair of suit pants, cashmere vests, the aprons your mother and grandmother wore—came out of this workshop!
Why would I trade that for coin?
Out! I've said this a thousand times!
The man in the white shirt licks his lips and keeps going, trying to look professional.
Times have changed, sir.
People always fear what's new, but the ending is always the same.
Hardly anyone reads books or letters now. Gold and banknotes have turned into credit points. From here on out, it's the age of technology and progress.
Have you seen the news? They've detected a 600-meter asteroid with a high chance of hitting Earth in a few years, but the Human Technology Alliance has already sent ships to handle it.
One blast, fireworks in space, and the threat is gone. The last one like that wiped out the dinosaurs and brought centuries of the Ice Age. This time? It won't happen. Our brightest and best guarantee it will never happen!
This glory belongs to the noble, virtuous human race!
The old tailor shows no sign of being moved by the empty slogans. The man in the white shirt lowers his raised fist, chastened.
Do people reach into their suit pockets and pay you after a speech like that? Begging at its finest!
(Tch. Ignorant commoner.)
What I mean is—I respect your craft, and this workshop that embodies an era's dignity, like history itself, but—
Even if they had smashed the first power loom, humanity wouldn't have gone back to spinning wheels and hand shuttles. Progress is irreversible, sir. This plot of land needs to make way for progress, for our shared, better future.
Not the same thing at all!
And who gave you the right to decide what has value? This workshop, these people—what makes you think you can measure them?
The man in a white shirt scans the aging workshop. Visitors are rare now. The century-old signboard is chipped and peeling, its letters worn away with no one to repair them.
A few workers sew distractedly, more interested in the conversation than the dull work in their hands. The white-shirted man looks pleased.
Mr. Archibald, believe it or not, you're quite well known where we come from.
We regret what happened in that incident too. If you'll just sign these, we'd be happy to... give the past a better closure.
Sign papers? Closure? That's what you did back then—papers signed and the slate wiped clean...
You think I'd believe your lies again?!
I can give up everything else, but a dead person—could she ever come back?!!
The old tailor's voice breaks. He has to take a few deep breaths. He looks at the wardrobes that once stood empty when they were no longer needed.
We understand you're upset about what happened back then, but let's not mix issues...
Don't mix issues...
Fine words. You people in white shirts come and go, spitting cold, empty lines. No one takes responsibility. No one truly cares.
Everyone knows they spent more money silencing people than fixing the problem!
I just want the ones responsible to step forward and explain why it happened, where it went wrong, who slipped up—to mend it properly, like stitching on a patch. And if it can't be mended, then throw the rags out for good. It shouldn't be like this... it shouldn't be like this!
You go on and on—letters of complaint, petitions for years—enough to fill a lifetime. Don't you already know the truth in your heart?
We're NOT the ones who caused those tragedies!
At the end of his rope, the man in the white shirt pops open his collar and drops the threat.
You may be a fool, but your apprentices aren't. A place like this? One spark and it burns to the ground.
Be sensible. It will be better for everyone.
Someone sucks in a breath. A loose spool of thread tumbles to the floor.
What a shame! We'll be back.
He strides out, head high. His pristine black shoes creak sharply on the old wood.
Thread shakes her head, closes the door, and goes back to her embroidery.
Needle and Scissors stand on either side of the workbench, tugging the fabric. They can't get it smooth—flatten the left and the right puckers. Fabric clutches a tape measure, wraps it around his head again and again, nearly choking himself.
HYPOCRITE!
The old tailor glares at the retreating back, curses under his breath, then turns to his apprentices. No one dares meet his disappointed eyes.
M-Master, maybe we should at least consider the offer...
Needle forces the words out, palms sweating.
Wretch! Did I teach you this craft so you'd help outsiders sell off our workshop?
He explodes, pounding the workbench again and again. The thunder of it echoes through the room and makes the tools tremble.
That's not what I meant!
Fabric jumps in to smooth it over.
Hey, Catherine was just kidding, right? Of all of us, you're the most skilled. Your stitches are the best.
But these past few years, we get the same pay while deadlines shrink. The work gets heavier and harder.
Scissors steps up, putting himself between Needle and the old tailor.
YOU...!
Please don't be angry, Master. Everyone's just exhausted from all the odd jobs lately...
Even you?
Holy Mother, protect us...
It wasn't like this in the past.
In his memory, butchers, laborers, bakers, blacksmiths, and tailors all sat happily on benches out front, basking in the same sunlight, full of life.
People helped one another, standing strong, their steady eyes quietly guarding the pride and beauty of craft.
...At least not now.
Back to work. Or do you think this workshop should die today?
Exhausted, he wipes away the coffee stain, removes his sleeve guards and apron, and retreats to the back room.
The air in the workshop grows more stifling by the minute. Only furrowed brows and the click of sewing needles break the silence.
Why is everyone so angry?
No one answers.
An era is ending. The comfortable, steady old order shatters in an instant. Who is to blame? Who could take the blame?
Through the heavy gloom, something sharp cuts across.
Anyone else want to speak up? Maybe say something foolish like, "It'll all get better?"
