The World Between Stitches

Anya Tanner startled as something cold collided with her face, jarring her from sleep. She raised investigative fingers to find mushy snow. Scraping it away, she sat up and begged her eyes to adjust.

“Good morning, Anya!” a cheerful fellow chirped.

“Excuse me?” She squinted at the backlit outline. She realized she was sitting in a snowbank. “What the devil?”

Lurching up, she lost her balance, undone by stiff joints.

His hands steadied her, touch cold as frost. “Not the devil, in fact,” he pouted slightly. “I thought your parents had a thing about politeness.”

Bewildered, Anya’s body braced to run, but she could hear her father’s crisp, unapproving voice.

Forcibly stilling, she replied, “Ah, yes, quite sorry.” She was entirely discombobulated. “Sorry…?”

“Call me Mister.”

“Mr.?” She studied his face. His skin held the pale hue of morning frost, his eyes glinting in shades of gray.

“Just Mister, for now.”

Something familiar about his voice, yet out of reach.

“Do you mind telling me why… what the… this…?” Anya gestured helplessly toward her body’s indent in the pile of snowflakes.

“I suspect you were just exhausted and couldn’t stand it for one more moment. Come, you owe me tea.”

The confidence with which he set off toward her house left her little choice but to follow, her mind scrambling to assemble its foggy pieces.

Pulling keys from her pocket, Anya turned the deadbolt to find it already unlocked. Small town or not, that was unusual for her. She shrugged off her coat, her feet angling for the bare wood stairs and the stove beyond. Mister followed.

“Please, sit,” she offered, keeping her back to him—buying herself time to regain her senses.

The kitchen was bare. No fruit. No flowers. The northern wall ghosted with pale outlines where the sun had bleached around missing picture frames. She frowned, wondering where they went.

Setting a steaming cup of tea before Mister, she slid into her usual chair. Her heart constricted at the sight of him sitting there, though she couldn’t place why.

They talked for a while, speaking of nothing much. Aware she knew him, it felt too vulnerable to admit she couldn’t remember.

Mister felt kind. Anya felt adrift.

While chatting, her gaze kept being drawn to a thimble glinting in the low sun.

Her chair made a thunderous noise in the quiet space as she moved to retrieve it. The metal was warm. It felt like unhurried afternoons in the workshop; vintage records humming, the sun clinging to the sky, the smell of old furs and second chances.

Absorbed, Anya went downstairs and opened the door to her workshop. Pushing inside, she felt herself tighten with excitement, breath high in her chest.

Her heart sank.

Inside, the worktables, tools, and forms stood like mourners, all shrouded. Why had she given up her art? Her favorite memories lived in busy fingers and full hearts, customers twirling before mirrors in new-old heirlooms and hats, warmed by her work.

“Why’d you stop?” Mister leaned against the doorjamb.

She hadn’t noticed him follow.

“I’m not sure,” she confessed, pulling a sheet off an abandoned project. She dragged the scent of leather and fur deep into her lungs.

“I think you’ve been asleep for quite a while, Anya Tanner,” Mister stated quietly.

Anya felt she should bristle, but she could sense it, too.

“So?” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“So?”

He shrugged. “Tomorrow is a wonderful day to open your doors again.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I feel so out of… touch.”

“You’ll find it as you go.” He winked conspiratorially. “I have friends who need mending. I’ll ask them to stop by.”

Anya’s eyes flitted around the room once more, feeling sturdier amongst her tools. She turned to accept but Mister was gone.

She searched the house. Nothing. Tea untouched.

She hadn’t heard the door close.

            As Mister promised, Anya had barely opened the workshop before there was confident rapping on the door. Butterflies dominating her stomach, she opened the door with a smile; the action feeling foreign and tight.

“Good morning! May I help you?”

Anya studied the unknown faces. Both women were as pale as Mister. Coldness ebbed off them in waves. She didn’t recognize them, but that meant little with a muddled mind.

“We heard you can mend these memories.” They each held up an item: leather gloves and a muff. “What do you charge?”

“A story,” Anya replied habitually, “about the memories these hold.”

Eyes alight, they nodded enthusiastically.

“They're lovely...” She reverently took the gloves first, inspecting them. “Here’s a stool and a cup of tea. What’s your name?” she asked, finding her thread.

“I’m Grace. When I was here, Nana would always take me for long walks around the pond, telling me stories of dragons and riders; so animated with her hands it felt like I was watching a movie. When I see them, I see her stories.”

Anya listened while Grace retold her Nana’s favorite story, her fingers flying with practiced ease. As she spoke, pink bloomed in Grace’s cheeks like summer peaches, her eyes sparkling like kiwis and sunshine. Anya cocked her head. The other lady was still the same pale hue as Mister. Maybe she’d hit her head in the snowbank, but she had no bumps or cuts. Shaking herself, she focused on her work.

Finished, Anya laid the mended gloves in Grace’s lap. Tears welled up in Grace’s eyes as she wrapped her now-warm fingers around the supple leather. “I can see her again. Thank you.”

This was why Anya loved her work—permanent doorways into favorite memories, re-experiencing the deep love found in the creases of life.

The other woman, Adel, swapped places with Grace. The muff was riddled with moth holes. As Anya worked, Adel spoke of her sister and how they used to hold hands inside the muff when they walked to school, flipping from one side to the other to keep warm on the coldest of days.

Lulled by the process, Anya found herself in a beautiful flow; life pouring from her fingertips into the patchwork. When she was pleased with her efforts, she passed the muff to Adel.

Eyes finding Adel’s face, Anya froze. Adel’s skin was sun-kissed and her eyes were the color of wide-open sky, reflecting wonder as she stroked the refreshed muff. She knew she wasn’t imagining things. Shaken, she took a couple paces back, openly staring at the women, the warmth they exuded.

Anya’s door opened to Mister strolling in. Saying hello to everyone, his eyes locked with Anya’s. His were hazel today, a collision of amber and walnut. She frowned at him. She had looked into those eyes a million times; how could she not place them? Unnerved by her lack of memory, she offered a tepid smile.

“My friends being nice to you?” The timbre of his voice relaxed her shoulders.

“They’ve been telling me wonderful stories.”

“We always loved that, didn’t we?” He smiled down at her with easy familiarity, placing cool hands on her arms.

She frowned again but was interrupted by three more pale people coming inside. Anya pulled out extra stools and fetched more tea.

She spent the whole day cozied in her workshop. No one chose to leave after their item was repaired, preferring to listen to the stories. It felt like a fresh injection of air into her stale lungs. She fixed William’s father’s wallet, Rosie’s mother’s purse, and Dalton’s grandfather’s coat. Each cycle the same: they appeared pale on arrival, colorful after their memory-filled item had been refurbished.

Every time she finished an item, Mister appeared more… alive. She noticed things: his dark chocolate hair, his voice that filled her heart as he swapped stories with the others, his now very defined jawline, all brushing against locked memories.

With the sunset, Anya began closing the workshop.

“Time for one more?”

She looked up at Mister’s face, so close to piecing it together. Reaching out and taking the fur scarf, she brushed his warm skin… a pang of remembrance.

The touch. The scarf.

This scarf was hers.

“How…?”

“Do you trust me?”

She found that she did.

“Please,” he gestured toward the scarf.

She fetched more thread from the supply closet, struggling to see in the now-dim ambiance. Behind her, a blinding light lit up the entire workshop. Startled, she whipped out of the closet to find everyone gone except for Mister.

“Where’d they go!?” she asked.

“They finally moved on because of you.”

Anya stared at him, mouth open, not understanding.

“Come, let’s mend this last piece together.” He gestured to the workbench.

The ache of love for her craft won over her need for immediate answers.

Together, they fell into a flow, moving about the workshop with rehearsed grace. Anya hummed a tune; Mister added lyrics. Anya produced a new needle when one snapped; Mister prepped the string. When Mister needed the shears, Anya was already passing them to him.

With a deeply contented sigh, Anya stroked the restored fur lovingly.

“You haven’t paid, Mister.” Anya commented.

“Well, we can't have that. A man always pays his debts!” She felt his presence at her back, almost touching. “I fell in love with a young woman 30 years ago. She is the light of my life. She sings everywhere, offering a smile or tea to those she meets and often completes projects for the cost of a story.”

His mouth had moved close to her ear. She turned to face him and gasped.

She was looking at her husband—his hazel eyes, his chocolate hair, his easy smile. Tears rushed to her eyes as goosebumps exploded across her skin. Every memory came crashing in. Placing her hands on his warm face, she soaked in the feel of his stubble. She gazed at him in awe.

“How is this possible? James, y…you died.”

“The in-between is a strange place. Moving on isn’t possible unless you bring along your favorite memories. That’s what you’ve been doing today—by listening and repairing, you mended their memories and made it possible for them to be carried onwards.”

Tears freely fled her eyes.

“I couldn’t bring myself to move on until I knew you were back in our workshop, doing the thing we loved most. Do you remember why you went outside?”

Anya nodded. She hadn’t cared whether she lived or died, unable to stand the sadness in her home, in her heart.

“I’ve felt so empty without you,” her voice cracking.

He cupped her face, wiping the tears.

“You are the love of my life. But my leaving doesn’t mean you need to stay frozen and pale like the folks you helped. Look at what you did today, the magic you were the catalyst for. You have more to do here.”

“I feel insane, James. Am I hallucinating?”

“My dearest, does it matter if it brings you back to life?”

She paused, his words landing as truth.

“Mister,” she breathed. “Mister because I only called you Mr. Tanner when I couldn’t stand how much I loved you.”

James beamed down at his wife and kissed her.

“Thank you for mending my memories, my love.” He said softly into their shared breath.

“Thank you for mending mine.”

“I must go but I am never apart from you. Watch for the signs.”

The room glowed again, but she never looked away, her eyes locked with the greatest love she had ever known.

“I will. I love you.”

“And I, you. Forever.”

And he was gone.

Anya stood in the kitchen the next day, humming James’s favorite song. She had rehung all the photos, lovingly lingering on one of them dancing in the workshop. The hole in her chest was still there, but it seemed more manageable somehow.

It was time. Throwing the door open wide, she greeted the first neighbor in line and looked at the old blanket held up for her inspection.

“I can repair that, but it will cost you a story.”