A short story featuring a “gifted” tailor who has the capacity to alter the course of lives with the simple thread of a needle…
by: Zary Fekete
Emil stitched silently.
He looped every strand of thread like a steady heartbeat, predictable…reliable. His shop was a narrow place with its front door barely visible between a dry cleaner and a pawn shop, the kind of business no one remembered until they tore a cuff on a blouse or realized their trousers weren’t ready for tomorrow’s interview. The customers arrived, chatted briefly, and then went about their days, never wondering why things went so well afterward.
Emil didn’t tell them why.
He had discovered it accidentally years ago. A skirt’s hem mended just so and a mournful widow discovered peace. A neckline adjusted moderately and a drunk’s hands stopped shaking long enough for him to check himself in to the clinic. Once Emil realized he had it, he experimented, a pull here and a modification there. Somehow whatever threads he stitched into the fabric echoed in the lives of his patrons. It wasn’t control or command. It was a kind of influence. A subtle nudging against the hands of fate.
But then came Rourke.
Rourke was not of the regular kind. His square jaw entered the shop first followed by the expensive watch on his wrist. He was carrying a silk suit that cost more than Emil paid in rent for two months. Rourke said the suit needed a touch up. Emil nodded.
When Emil measured Rourke’s shoulders, he felt it, something dirty, like dust stirred up by a broom. He pricked his finger with the needle, a mistake he hadn’t made in years.
“You work in the government sector?” Emil asked, his voice purposefully disinterested.
Rourke smiled. “I work in change.”
Rourke didn’t explain what he meant. He didn’t need to. Emil saw it all. This wasn’t a man nudged by fate. He bent it. Sometimes broke it.
Emil picked up his needle and hesitated. He could line the cuffs with threads of temperance. He could stitch mercy into the lining. He could do anything at all.
Or, he could leave a thread loose, so that it would unravel.
His fingers tightened on the needle. It will just take a stitch, he thought. Only one.
Emil bent his head and sewed. For the first time in years, he sewed not to fix, but to undo. He threaded hesitation into the breast lining, to coax a bit of hidden weight out of every decision. He didn’t want to ruin him, just slow him down. Make him think.
Rourke was back a week later. His brow looked weary. There were bags under his eyes. He closed the shop door and stood, watching Emil darkly.
“I’ve worn the suit twice,” Rourke said. “It felt sluggish in it. Like I was walking through mud.”
Emil focused his eyes on the stitch before him. “Plenty of tailors in the city. Try another one.”
Rourke shook his head. “No, I like this one. Plenty of people are capable. But you, you seem clever.”
The clock on the shop wall ticked and a silence stretched between them.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Rourke said. “But I don’t operate slowly. People in my way are pushed aside.”
Emil continued to stitch.
Rourke stepped to the counter and dropped a garment bag. “A new suit. Double-breasted. By tomorrow. I’ll pay triple.”
“And if I refuse?”
Rourke smiled. “Then we’ll both know what happens when the wrong thread gets pulled.”
Emil purposefully ignored the bag as long as he could. Finally he walked over and unzipped it. Thick wool. Very expensive. Waiting for his touch.
He turned and walked to the front door. For a long time, he gazed out at the street. He saw the hopeful. Men hurrying to a job so they could bring home supper for their family. Mothers pushing strollers while two or three other children tagged along behind. Real people.
He turned back to the pile of rich wool and bent over it with his needle. He worked late into the night. The crisp hiss of his scissors passed through the fabric. He heated the iron and pressed the material flat. Again and again, the thread passed in and out of the new suit like breath. As he worked, he thought of Rourke, of the hesitation he had sewn last time. It wasn’t enough. This one would require more. It would take everything he had.
But would he get away with it? Or would Rourke notice before taking the suit and leaving? Emil pushed the thought away and worked. By midnight, the suit was nearly done. Only the lining remained.
Emil breathed in deeply and reached for the silver thread. It was bright. He had never used it, because it drew the eye. It shown like something holy. Or sharp.
One stitch for confusion. One for a delay. One for doubt before violence.
And one—
He paused.
The needle hovered above the final seam.
One more stitch would be enough to undo the man. But Rourke wouldn’t forgive another misstep. Emil could see it clearly now — a flick of Rourke’s hand, blood on the counter, a dropped needle. It would be days before someone found his body.
He set the needle down and breathed slowly, looking at the ceiling. For the first time in years he prayed.
When Rourke returned the next morning, Emil handed over the suit quietly. Their fingers brushed.
Rourke looked at him. “I could have sent one of my men to pick it up,” he said.
Emil sat back down with his needle. “Why didn’t you?”
“Certain stories get passed around. I wanted to find out.” He gave a single barking laugh.
Then Emil bent over his needle again, and Rourke left.
The moment he was gone Emil moved to the door and locked it. He glanced both ways out the window and pulled the shade. He shoved his belongings into a bag. He took a last glance around the shop, tried to memorize every shadow.
Then he left out the back door, turning up the alley, and disappearing around the corner.
There were other threads to find. Other suits to mend. Other cities in need of tailors In need of helpers.
More fabric to sew.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella, Words on the Page, out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social.
