Kairos hadn't softened overnight.
The city was still filled with chaos, honks, neon signs, dust, and a thousand untold stories spiraling through the air.
But Iraaya had softened inside, Or maybe she had hardened enough to not crumble, Either way, something had shifted.
She arrived at the tailor shop at 9:30 AM sharp, ten minutes early. Her stomach had rumbled during the walk, but she had ignored it, Hunger couldn't matter more than survival.
The shop looked just as yesterday: a cracked glass window, a rusting board that read "Panna Tailors," and behind it, the rhythmic purring of a machine already running.
The bell above the door jingled as Iraaya stepped in, Inside, the air was cool and stale, with the scent of cloth, oil and old incense settling into her skin like dust.
The tailor shop looked just as it had yesterday-narrow, cluttered, lived-in, A single tube light buzzed weakly above, On one wall hung measuring tapes like limp snakes, in the far corner, a steel cupboard stood dented and locked, its top stacked with folded fabrics wrapped in clear plastic. Threads in every possible colour hung on a wooden pegboard behind the counter, and the sewing machine hummed steadily, its operator bent over a sleeve.
The woman didn't look up, She spoke instead, voice flat and practical.
"You're early."
"I wanted to be," Iraaya said, closing the door softly behind her.
"No one wants to clean floors at 9:30 in the morning," the woman replied, still stitching.
"But maybe you're the kind that wants more than the usual."
Iraaya didn't know what that meant, but it sounded almost like a compliment. Or maybe a warning. "Bucket's there," the woman said, nodding toward the corner.
"Mop, rag, broom Clean first, fold second, Don't mix dupattas with blouse pieces, keep pins out of the machine wheels, And don't talk too much."
"I won't."
"You already are." The woman-whose name Iraaya still didn't know- finally looked up.
Her eyes were sharp behind thick glasses.
They scanned Iraaya the way a tailor might scan a flawed fabric: not with judgment, but with precise evaluation, Measuring strength, fray, potential, Iraaya lowered her eyes and picked up the bucket.
By 11 AM, her palms were red and raw again.
The mop stick was cracked, and the cloth smelled of mildew, But she moved without complaint-sweeping, scrubbing, folding, re-folding when asked.
The rhythm of the work began to seduce her, There was something almost holy in the order of it.
Cloth smoothed, Threads aligned, Dust banished, It made the world feel smaller, Manageable.
Stitch by stitch, fold by fold, Outside, Kairos roared as always.
Honks, hammers, heels on pavement, But inside, it was only the whir of the needle and the occasional sigh of scissors through silk.
At 12:15, the woman handed her a glass of water.
"I'm called Maari," she said.
Iraaya accepted the glass with both hands.
"Thank you, Maari Aunty."
"Don't add the 'aunty' unless you're planning to ask for favours," Maari said, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
Iraaya smiled faintly,It was the first light thing in the room all day.
Around 1 PM, a customer walked in, She was tall, thin, with narrow eyes and pointed heels that clicked against the tiled floor like punctuation, Her voice, when she spoke, was fast and clipped. "Is my blouse ready?" she asked, not even glancing at Iraaya.
Maari reached into a stack, pulled out a pale blue parcel, and handed it over, The woman opened it then and there, Her frown deepened.
"This is the wrong border. I asked for mirror-work. This is embroidery." Maari didn't flinch.
"You asked for mirror-work in gold. We didn't have enough gold thread. I called your number but you didn't pick up. So I made the call."
"You could've waited."
"No," Maari said.
"I could've done nothing. But then you wouldn't have had it at all."
The customer stared at her, Then at the blouse. Then back again.
"I'll take it," she muttered, and walked out, heels still angry.
Maari turned back to her sewing machine
Iraaya watched the whole exchange with quiet awe.
The woman was stone, but alive
Not cruel
Just... unmoved by nonsense, She wasn't afraid to be disliked.
"What are you looking at?" Maari said without looking up.
"I'm... just learning," Iraaya replied.
"Good," Maari muttered.
"Then learn this. People here- this city-they want fast things, shiny things. But tailoring? It's about patience. If you rush a hem, it puckers. If you tighten a sleeve too much, the whole dress ruins. Remember: clothes carry the mood of the maker."
Iraaya nodded.
"And never let someone who doesn't stitch tell you how to stitch."
That sentence wrapped itself around her ribs like a thread pulling tight.
By 3 PM, Iraaya was exhausted.
Her knees hurt, Her fingers had picked up a few tiny cuts from stray pins, The sewing machine's rhythm had become a lullaby that tempted sleep, But then the door opened again.
A boy stepped in. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. Scruffy hair, smudged glasses, jeans hanging too low on his hips.
He held a parcel wrapped in newspaper.
"Ma," he said,
"they gave me this from the school. Some torn uniforms. They asked if we could fix or make new ones by next week."
Maari waved him to the back without looking. "Drop them near the cupboard. And tie your laces, you'll trip again."
"Iraaya," she said, pointing a scissor at her,
"go help the idiot." Iraaya hurried over, taking the bundle from him.
The boy looked at her, confused. "You're new."
"She's not blind," Maari snapped from her seat.
He grinned. "I'm Aryan. Don't worry, she talks to everyone like they're disposable razors.
" Iraaya let out a soft laugh before she could stop herself.
"Quiet!" Maari said, But her eyes softened, just for a second.
By 5 PM, the shadows outside had lengthened. Maari finally stood up from her machine and stretched, her joints cracking like old wood
"That's it for today."
Iraaya wiped her hands on a rag, Her back ached, but she didn't complain, She didn't even ask if she'd be allowed to return, Maari handed her a folded note.
"Two hundred. Go eat something that isn't air."
"Thank you," Iraaya said.
The words felt too small, She wanted to say more-to explain what this meant, how this tiny shop had become her foothold in a crumbling world.
But she didn't want to sound desperate, So she only said
"I'll come tomorrow."
Maari gave a small nod. "Then come sharp at 9:30. If you're late, I'll replace you with a dog."
"Dogs have more options than I do," Iraaya replied, and to her surprise, Maari actually laughed.
Just once
Just enough
The sky outside was stained a deep orange when Iraaya stepped back into the chaos of Kairos.
She walked slowly, coins tucked safely inside her blouse.
A new kind of tiredness hummed in her bones.
Not the ache of defeat, but of purpose, She bought a packet of rice and lentils from a roadside grocer. A soap bar, too, Essentials, Survival tools.
Under the banyan tree near the temple, she sat again, the sun dipped lower, and the shadows stretched long across the pavement.
Her mat in the shelter would be waiting.
The same iron roof, The same hum of night sounds, But something had changed.
She had a name in this city now. A place. A person who expected her, A rhythm.
And as the streetlights flickered to life above her, Iraaya whispered into the dusk: "
Thread by thread, I'll sew myself into this city."