seamstress · 69 · the south lane
small, deliberate, with hands that find what the eyes have learned not to. she wears two pairs of spectacles, one on her nose and one on a ribbon, in case the first pair has lied to her again.
she has gone near-blind in the past five years and has not stopped sewing. the threads are arranged on her wall by feel — silk on the left, cotton in the middle, the heavy wool last — and she knows the colour of each spool by its weight and warmth. she takes in fewer commissions now: only mending, and only for people whose voices she trusts.
she keeps a single button in a saucer by the door — a small bone button, very plain — and lifts it once a day to feel its edge has not chipped. she has not said why. it does not match anything she owns.
field note · she does not need light to thread a needle. she prefers a dim room. it stops the cat from playing with the thread.