Chapter 4: The Tailor’s Ledger
Mr. Chen’s shop was a narrow slice of a building wedged between a bakery and a hardware store. The windows were opaque with dust, and the bell above the door gave a sharp, startling ring as I entered.
The shop was a chaotic symphony of thread spools, half-finished mannequins, and the heavy smell of old wood. But underneath the scent of fabric and steam, there was something else. A faint, lingering trace of lilac.
“Be right there!” a voice called from behind a curtain of heavy velvet.
A man stepped out, wiping his hands on a stained apron. He was older, with spectacles perched on the end of a sharp nose. He looked at me, then at the garment bag in my arms.
“That’s weird,” I murmured, sniffing the air. “That smell…”
“Not really,” Mr. Chen said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Half the ladies in this town use the same lilac water. It gets into the upholstery, stays in the lungs. You must be Emma. Mrs. Kline said you’d be coming.”
I frowned. “She called ahead?”
“She’s very thorough,” he said, taking the bag from me. He laid the blue dress out on a long cutting table and let out a low whistle. “Well. Lorna’s work. I’d know those stitches anywhere.”
“You knew her?”
“In a town this size, everyone knows everyone’s business. Or at least, they think they do.” He began to examine the seams with a magnifying glass. “She was a woman of many secrets, your grandmother.”
“She was a quiet woman,” I corrected him. “That’s not the same as having secrets.”
“Is it?” he asked, his fingers moving nimbly along the hem. “Sometimes the quietest people are just the best at editing their own history.”
He stopped suddenly, his thumb pressing against a thick section of the bottom hem. “Hold on. There’s a weight here that shouldn’t be.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Is it damaged?”
“No,” he said, pulling a small seam ripper from his pocket. “It’s a pocket. No, not a pocket… a hiding place. Stitched in from the inside.”
With a precision that made me wince, he opened a tiny section of the silk. He reached in and pulled out a small, yellowed square of paper, folded into a tight rectangle.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure this stayed with the dress,” he said, handing the paper to me.
I unfolded it with trembling fingers. The handwriting was cramped, hurried, and looked nothing like the elegant, flowing script Grandma used for her recipes. The words hit me like a physical blow:
If you’re reading this… I’m sorry. I lied to you about everything. The history I gave you was a fairy tale. Look for the truth where the light hits the floor at noon.
“No,” I whispered, pulling the dress toward me. “This isn’t her. She didn’t lie. She didn’t do things like this.”
I looked at Mr. Chen. He was watching me with a calculated neutrality. “Are you sure you knew her, Emma? Or did you just know the version of her she built for you?”
The question felt like an accusation. I grabbed the dress, stuffed it back into the bag, and practically ran out of the shop. I needed air. I needed the world to stop shifting beneath my feet.
