What did you say?
Shorten it... again?!
The big city factories are so overloaded that even running their machines around the clock isn't enough, and now they want us to sew the trimmings to fill their gaps?
Earlier deadlines! Faster speeds!
Her words keep cutting the night like a blade.
The big factories take the prime cuts, and we get the scraps! Sleepless nights, day after day, stringing junk beads!
Do they know how much prices have jumped? Do they know how many loaves one heavy dress earns us?!
Bah. None of you deserves it. Not a single one!
Needle grows more furious with every word, trembling all over. She hurls the half-finished gown. The precious thread snaps and natural pearls of every size scatter across the floor.
They all stay up night after night to finish this order.
Massive workloads and halved timelines fray every nerve. Flesh and blood need rest; no one can outrun machines.
Dark rings sit under dull, empty eyes as if stamped into every face.
Easy! Easy! These pearls are worth more than both our lives!
Fabric sprawls across the floor, carefully gathering the precious pearls one by one.
Worth... WORTH! WORTH!!
Who has ever cared if we live or die?
A bead has rolled into the pedal's gap. Fabric can't reach it no matter what. He hauls himself up, chest heaving. Sweat burns his eyes so badly he can't close them. The big, broad-backed man finally breaks.
What else can we do? Whatever the client says, we do. They're the gods!
Not enough time? Who cares! Look at the zeros on the penalty clause...!
Master doesn't bother anymore. Today he chased a white shirt man off and shut himself in the back room...
When persuasion fails, the white shirt man shouts outside the door.
Come on, everyone! Having work beats machines taking your jobs and you ending up on the street!
Fabric's head buzzes. His heartbeat hammers in his ears.
Anita, the master likes you best. Can't you talk to him?
I tried. So many times. He said he wouldn't agree, that he refused to lose like this.
The woman drops her head, tracing the floor with a fingertip.
Isn't there a better way?
It's a whole bag full of credit cards! Can't the old man see these impossible orders are killing us?
Good thing I only have myself to feed...
...I have to think about my daughter's future.
If you want to stitch it better, make it sturdier...
Get real. Think anyone can ID you by your pretty stitching? But if a single bead goes missing, they'll be at your door pointing at your forehead!
"Why not just stitch it sloppier then?"
"Stop with the excuses. It's fair competition. If you can't do better than others or faster than machines, you're the one who gets cut!"
Usually calm, Scissors now shakes his head theatrically, as if overtime has driven him mad. Looks like he's at the limit too.
You're fine living like this forever?
Everyone freezes. The silence is so deep you could hear a pin drop.
What do you mean?
Thread asks it timidly and hands all the gathered pearls to Fabric.
What do I mean?
Clients take away gowns we spend hundreds of hours embroidering—days and nights of work, every bit of skill we have...
Rich colors, beautiful hand, gold and silver threads... and in the end it sits forgotten in some corner of a massive closet, one piece among thousands.
They already own enough clothes to last a hundred years—from the cradle to their polished grave!
Needle stares at the permanent stains on her clothes and, without thinking, touches the old throb in her left ear.
During one delivery, she hesitated, reluctant to hand over the silk she had sewn. For that hesitation she took a vicious slap that perforated her eardrum. Blood spilled down then and there.
Take your dirty hands off.
Lucky for you your blood didn't touch the dress. Otherwise you'd have earned a few more slaps.
She will never forget the way they looked at her like filth, even though the exquisite embroidery they adored came from these same hands.
And the old tailor's habit of swallowing every complaint only deepens her despair about the workshop's present and future.
Sigh... They're major clients. We can't afford to offend them. They gave extra—called it... compensation.
<color=#ffffffff>I. Have. Had. Enough.</color>
The exhaustion in Needle's eyes burns into sparks. She bites off every word through clenched teeth.
Scissors studies the anger carved into her face.
He knows she's been the best embroiderer around for a decade, and that in her exhaustion she's thrown her hopes into a pit that gives nothing back.
Countless lifelike miracles are born from her hands, but no one has the patience to wait for miracles anymore.
Production could give people comfort and safety by now, and yet some are still worked to death.
What I'm saying is, if you don't get rich, you'll rot in a closet where no one remembers you.
The world doesn't care about the poor. I won't miss any chance that comes. I'm not going to join the homeless with a smile!
How would you talk him around? They've come to buy this place fifteen, twenty times. The old tailor throws them out every time. You heard Anita—he'll never agree.
They started at one and a half times market price, stingy as could be. But by the time they came during the day, it had gone up to triple.
Triple!! That's a jackpot!
Her voice cracks with the scream. With that money, she'd never blister her hands in this crumbling room again.
Perhaps... just a little of the golden afterglow might still brush them...
Where there's profit, people flock. Where profit doubles, some sell their conscience.
Fabric clears his throat, uneasy.
Got objections? A better plan? How do we stop this rundown shop from being swapped out quickly and easily?
No... I don't.
Change has to happen.
The stubborn old mule... I'll give him a proper retirement send-off, for old times' sake.
Late at night, Concordia clutches her favorite puppy doll, ready to sleep. As always, the old tailor sits by her bed and tucks the blanket around her.
No stories tonight. Let's just talk for a while, alright?
The girl senses something different about the old tailor today and answers in a small mumble.
Okay.
Concordia, what do you think of Auntie Needle?
She's scary. I'm afraid to talk to her. She litters the workshop with torn paper scraps...
What are those colorful papers with numbers for? If they're important, why tear them up? If they're useless, why stare at them all the time?
The old tailor wants to sigh, but holds it back in front of the child.
Hmm, and Thread?
Auntie Thread is kind. She comforts Auntie Needle when she cries, and she got some super soft fabric—I heard it's really expensive—to make clothes for Uncle Fabric's baby girl when she's born.
She's shy. With people she knows or strangers outside, she always speaks in a tiny, tiny voice.
The old tailor thinks for a moment and asks another question.
What about your Uncle Fabric?
He's the only one who praises me... but when they fight, he never takes sides.
The old man is surprised by Concordia's sharp eye.
Lastly, Uncle Scissors.
I don't know. He won't talk to me...
The girl's eyelids droop, her lashes casting little shadows.
He only likes being with Auntie Needle...
Alright, kid. You've talked enough. Time to sleep.
Concordia drifts off to sleep. The workshop still runs through the night, but she's long since learned to sleep through the noise.
In the yellow light, the old man looks even more bent. He hides every metal box of old letters, then runs his fingers over the clothes in the wardrobe he made for her.
When he grows old, when his eyes fail and his hands can no longer sew, when the workshop he devoted his life to is in someone else's hands—at least something will still be there to keep her company.
Since she came into this world, let her feel a little of its warmth.
It's time. The time has come.
He makes up his mind.
Catherine's temper is quick and her math is poor, but her work is always the best. If she were an assistant to a real designer...
Bessy is worldly and fits in anywhere—perfect for expanding business. Constance's mind is as sharp as her craft. She never makes careless mistakes.
As for Anita... I truly don't know how to judge her.
She's always quiet and unassuming, yet so thoughtful—almost as if she can read minds. Could it be because of her background?
Maybe she can hold things together, at least until Concordia comes of age...
The old tailor grips a short pencil stub and mutters to himself, thinking. A knock on the door breaks his focus. He coughs twice and hides the yellowed page with only the opening lines written.
Master Archibald, Christmas is next month. We've planned a celebration. Maybe we should set work aside today.
A celebration? But the delivery date is near and the client's order still...
Concordia's birthday is soon, isn't it? We should give her a special gift—a surprise.
Hmm... you're right.
Haha, of course. She's my treasure!
The lights in the workshop are mostly out now, but the sewing machines still hum lazily, like tired bees.
W-what do we do now?
...It's gone too far. There's no turning back.
What... about Concordia?
Someone asks it in a trembling, pinched voice.
That filthy little thing, a ball of germs, with a dog tag to match. If the old tailor didn't have a habit of hoarding useless junk, she'd have frozen to death years ago, right?
You all know what you need to do.
But she's only a child...
We should have left her to suffocate in the snow back then. You just didn't want bloody hands, coward!
The girl startles awake. The workshop is strangely quiet, and the smell is wrong.
Her beloved puppy doll is gone from her bedside. She swallows her hurt and unease and climbs out of bed.
Puppy... where'd you go...
She holds back tears in the dark, eyes wide as she searches.
Sell her directly to clients who have "needs." Little girls—everyone prefers them. They fetch higher prices.
I'm not lining middlemen's pockets. Who knows how much they skim?
Her hair color is unusual—maybe some Las Prados official's bastard. Raise her and cash in later. Everyone loves that story.
Hmph. Or maybe just the last shred of conscience from two desperate, poor souls before they died. You love your gambles. I hate them.
It's darker than usual. She moves along the wall, careful, step by step.
How many more days can you wait? Las Prados now opens its doors only to the most elite—the very top.
Don't you see? Whether we catch the tailwind depends on what we do now.
As it is, not a single one of Concordia's personal things remains in this workshop.
What are you talking about? Where's the old tailor? Where did he go?
The girl peeks from behind the door, only half her face visible. Instinct tells her something terrible has happened. She curls into herself, arms locked tight around her body.
A woman hurries from the shadows, grabs the girl, and drags her hard to the workshop's front door—the spot where, years ago, the old tailor found her.
Ow... Auntie Thread!
She can't understand how the usually frail Thread can be so strong.
The woman lets the girl go, crouches to meet her eyes, and holds her trembling shoulders, sorrow heavy in her gaze.
The old tailor... went far away. He won't be back for a while.
Good child, run. As far from here as you can.
She presses something cold into the girl's hand. In the dim light, the girl can only feel the familiar shape.
This is... my metal tag...
One day, you'll get your chance.
A woman shoves the girl, sending her stumbling forward.
Tiny points of light appear, gather, then multiply like insect bites. In an instant, thick smoke billows and the darkness flares bright.
It's my fault, all my fault. Because I wasn't a good child. Because I didn't pray to the Holy Mother every day...
They don't want me... They don't want me anymore!
Blatter... this is all your fault...!
...
Go away! I never want to see you again!
...
The Holy Mother can't save you. She can't save anyone.
Fear tightens the girl's chest. She grips the metal tag.
She falls. Her palm is cut, and blood smears across the metal. She scrambles up and runs, staggering as if chased by a demon.
Find my birth parents? I'm not interested. To me, the old tailor is my parent.
I understand. The old tailor loved you dearly.
He loved you so much, and in the end there wasn't even a body left to bury...
Who do you think took him away, never to return?
Who wrecked your ordinary life and left you with nothing again?
You want the truth. You want to find the real culprit behind all this.
Yes. I... want the truth.
On the streets, in the orphanage, in the workshop—you gradually forgot your anger, your hatred.
I haven't forgotten. I won't forget.
You have power now, and with it, freedom. You're not that panicked child who ran away. So, do you want revenge for the old tailor?
Revenge...
<color=#ff4e4eff>Yes, I want revenge.</color>
