The sun rose late over Kairos that day, hidden behind a smog-thick sky. A soft drizzle had slicked the streets, and the city wore a coat of grey.
But inside Elysian Drapes, colour bloomed everywhere, swatches pinned to walls, threads trailing like tiny rivers of silk, sequins catching what little light managed to break through the gloom. Iraaya arrived early again. She always did now. Not from fear of being late, but because the space had become magnetic.
The cutting tables, the chatter of designers, the sharp snap of scissors, it had become the pulse of her new life. She craved it.
She had been with Elysian Drapes for nearly two months. Long enough to understand the flow of it, but still green enough to be uncertain where she stood.
This morning, however, an unexpected message had shaken her flow.
Come by Panna Tailors today if you can. Need your help. Amma A simple line. But it struck her heart like a bell.
Amma rarely asked. Amma instructed, expected, taught, but asked? Never.
So after confirming with Aanya that she could leave an hour early, Iraaya tucked her sketchpad under one arm and hurried through the rain-streaked streets toward the shop where it had all begun.
The city felt different as she walked, less hostile, more layered. She could read it now, the same way she read a seam: tension here, ease there, a tug of ambition stitched through every alley. When she reached Panna Tailors, her breath caught. The cracked glass window, the faded board-still the same. But the shop itself buzzed with a nervous energy.
Inside, Amma stood surrounded by bolts of raw silk and brocade, a frazzled young woman wringing her hands near the counter.
"Iraaya," Amma said as soon as she entered, voice brisk but edged with relief.
"Good. You came."
"What's happening?" Iraaya asked, dropping her bag.
"This is Minal," Amma said, nodding toward the customer.
"Wedding in three days. The tailor she booked ran off with half the deposit and no work done."
"I can't wear ready-made!" Minal cried.
"I need something that fits, something that looks-"
"Calm," Amma said, holding up a hand.
"We'll manage." Her eyes flicked to Iraaya.
"I need you to help me cut and drape the lehenga. We'll take measurements now. No time for second fittings, we'll have to get it right the first time." Iraaya's pulse quickened.
She'd assisted on pieces at Elysian, but this would be the first time she was part of making an entire garment on such short notice. No net to catch mistakes. No senior designer to lean on.
"I'm ready," she said, before doubt could take root. And so they began.
Amma took measurements, hip, waist, length, shoulder, and dictated numbers while Iraaya scribbled them down.
Minal paced, her phone buzzing with impatient relatives. When the client finally left to buy matching jewelry, the shop fell into a fierce, focused silence.
"You mark the skirt panels," Amma said.
"I'll start cutting the blouse."
"Understood."
They worked like twin hands of a clock, steady, synchronised. Hours blurred. The clatter of rain on the roof mixed with the snip of scissors, the sigh of fabric being shaped into something new.
At one point, Amma glanced over at the chalk lines Iraaya had drawn.
"Good," she said softly.
"Clean work." It was the closest thing to praise Amma ever offered, and it lit a quiet glow in Iraaya's heart.
As dusk fell, Aryan burst into the shop, hair damp from rain, a plastic bag of samosas in hand.
"Thought you two would forget to eat," he said, grinning. "We nearly did," Iraaya admitted with a tired smile.
They ate in brief, greasy bites between seams and pleats.
"She's good," Aryan said later, watching Iraaya pin the skirt panels with deft fingers.
Amma simply replied, "She learns."
By nightfall, the lehenga was assembled, rough, unfinished, but real.
Minal returned and gasped when they held it up.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"I didn't think, you really can do it?"
"You'll wear it on time," Amma promised.
They arranged a fitting for the next afternoon.
When Minal left, Amma finally leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples.
"You've grown fast," she said to Iraaya.
"But don't let speed fool you. Every thread needs time."
"I know," Iraaya said.
Amma studied her for a moment. Then, with a rare softness: "You needed this today. Not just the girl, you."
It was true. The flows of Elysian were thrilling, but sometimes distant. Precise. Corporate.
Here, in this cluttered shop with its dusty light and its stubborn heart, this was stitching that mattered to someone, not just to a brand.
Before leaving, Iraaya hugged Amma briefly, surprising them both.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Amma huffed.
"Go. Your big place will wonder where you are." But her hand rested for a moment on Iraaya's shoulder, warm and solid as old wood.
Outside, the city had transformed again. Streetlights gleamed like beacons through the mist.
The rain had stopped, but puddles mirrored the stars. As she walked, Iraaya thought of how far she'd come, and how many threads had stitched her here: hunger, loss, grit, chance. Amma's teaching. Vicky's friendship. Aanya's gamble.
The next morning, as she rode the elevator at Elysian, her phone buzzed.
Photo from Amma: Minal at her wedding, radiant in the hastily-made lehenga, joy shining brighter than the gold embroidery. Beneath it, a single word: "Done." Iraaya smiled so wide that the receptionist at the front desk looked up in surprise. She didn't explain. How could she? Some things couldn't be spoken in a place of labels and portfolios. Some victories were stitched too deep for words.
Later that day, Aanya pulled her aside.
"We're opening a new line," she said.
"Fusion couture, but with more handcrafted elements. I want you to start drafting ideas. You have an eye for what people feel in clothes, not just what they wear."
The words landed like a key turning in a lock.
"I'll try," Iraaya said, though her heart answered louder: will
That night, back at the shelter, Vicky listened as Iraaya told her about the lehenga, about Amma's text, about the new project.
"You're glowing," Vicky said, grinning.
"I just... want to do this right," Iraaya replied.
Vicky bumped her shoulder playfully.
"Girl, you already are." Later, lying under her shawl, Iraaya traced invisible stitches in the air with one finger.
Thread by thread, her life had begun to weave into something more.
And now, with each day, the fabric grew richer, not perfect, but hers.
Thread of return, she thought, drifting into sleep.
Thread of hope.
Thread of becoming.
And tomorrow? She would pick up the needle again.