Benny Stitch's Arc

Chapter 1 of 10

Benny Stitch wanted a tailor shop on the muddy main lane of Phloxara. Right now he had only a borrowed sewing machine and no place to put anything down. His finished seams lay in a bag by the machine. His scraps sat in his coat pockets. His measuring tape hung around his neck because he had nowhere to hang it. Six eyes and ink-stained fingers, and still nothing he made stayed in one spot long enough to be seen. He had taught himself on this machine over many long weeks. He had left one crooked seam on purpose, then fixed it, and understood at last whose impatience lived in his hands. He had written to that person about the thread and the humming machine. No reply came. So Benny stopped waiting and made a decision. He needed his own four walls. That morning he walked to the postal desk to collect any mail. The desk spanned a whole wall, its wooden compartments packed with tiny colored envelopes. The clerk slid one slot open and passed Benny a folded notice. A small house on the main lane stood empty. Cheap, it said, because the last tenant left it a mess. Benny went straight there. The door stuck. He shoved it and stepped inside. Dust covered a heavy old seamstress desk shoved against the wall. A vintage cash register sat on top, its brass gone dull. Beneath the dust lay scissors, thimbles, and spools of thread in every color. Someone had sewn here before and left it all behind. Benny ran a finger along the desk. The wood was solid. The drawers still slid. He counted the room the way he once counted numbers in his reports. One corner for the machine. Shelves for fabric along both walls. A tiny cooking corner in the back for long nights. The space was small and filthy, but it was walls. It was a floor that was his. He found the owner by asking a neighbor. The rent was low. Benny emptied his savings and paid three months ahead. His sleek city coat gathered cobwebs as he worked, and he did not take it off. He hauled the borrowed machine over that same afternoon and set it in the corner he had chosen. He wiped the old desk clean and kept every spool the last tenant left. By dark the room held his machine, his desk, and his scattered work now sorted onto shelves. His seams were no longer hidden in a bag. They hung where anyone passing could look in and see them. Benny stood in the doorway and stepped back into the lane. The house had no sign. No customer knew his name. An empty room full of thread was not yet a shop, and the rent was already spent. He had walls now. He needed people to walk through them.