Clothier

It had been far too long for her old fingers to react with surprise when she pricked it with an old pin. Her hands had been rubbed raw on the fine linen, many years of pinpricks, and decades of thread wear. She readjusted the new hem, which she lined up with the chalk mark made at the fitting, several inches up. She had to remove that extra fabric, which was old, and handed down for nearly ten generations. The buttons had cracked from the tightness of the sewing thread and the pressure of holding the waistline in place for those young men that had worn these trousers all those years. As she sheared the excess fabric away, she placed it in a small paper bag, to be returned to the current owner. She ran her nail across the width of the leg opening, which she cut just right, without a millimeter to spare.

She folded the trousers and placed them on the counter, and wrapped them in a plain brown paper, which was secured with a soft twine. The customer bell had been rung, and she made her way to the counter. A young boy had been waiting quietly while she came to assist him. He said nothing, and placed a ticket upon the countertop. It had the number 338 stamped on it, along with today's date, and a large red PAID stamped over it. She smiled and walked into the back and retrieved his package. Those trousers she had just finished and had placed on the shelf was his. She returned to the counter, where the quiet boy awaited with great patience. She smiled again to him and said, "I knew your father, and he was a wonderful man. I hope these trousers serve you as well as they did your father." The boy snapped up the package with both thin arms and raced out of the shop. The old lady began to cry, as she gazed upon the framed front page of the local newspaper. THOUSANDS PERISH AS TEXTILE FACTORY GOES UP IN FLAMES.