The voice came from behind a sewing station crowded with spools of thread. A woman stood there—short, sturdy, wrapped in a cardigan that had clearly seen years of use but still held its color proudly. Her hair was silver and pulled into a neat bun. She wore thin gold-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose as she squinted at a hem pinned to a mannequin.
Naomi shut the door quickly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to let the draft in."
The woman looked up then, and her eyes, sharp but kind, rested on Naomi with a familiarity that startled her. "Child," the woman murmured, studying her face, "you look like you're carrying fifty pounds on your shoulders. Come sit before your knees give out."
Naomi blinked, unsure how to respond. "I... I'm okay. Really."
"Mm-hmm," the woman hummed, unconvinced. "And my old Singer machine don't jam every time the weather changes." She pointed to a stool. "Sit."
Something in her tone—firm, maternal, unquestionable—made Naomi obey without argument. She perched on the edge of the stool, fingers twisting together in her lap. The woman moved closer, peering over the glasses at Naomi as though reading secrets written on her skin.
"You've been crying," she said, not as an accusation, but as a truth spoken gently.
Naomi's throat tightened. She hadn't cried, not out loud, but maybe her face still carried the shadows. "I just..." She swallowed. "Work's been tough."
"Tough don't make you look like that," the woman replied softly. "Hurt does."
Naomi felt her eyes sting. She looked away, embarrassed. The woman reached into a drawer, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it into her palm.
"I'm Mabel," she said simply.
"Naomi," she murmured back.
"Well, Naomi, tell me this: why'd you walk into my shop today?"
Naomi let out a slow breath. She hadn't planned an explanation, but the words tumbled out anyway, fragile and shaking. "There's an event I was invited to," she said. "The Carrington Foundation Gala."
Mabel's brows rose. "Fancy affair."