Forgotten Fabric.

She came across the Market on a Wednesday - the day was covered in a sky that seemed to be bruised at the edges, the thick clouds pressing down as if the world itself were holding its own breath. She hadn’t meant to wander down the narrow alleyway behind her studio, the slick street and casual dripping sounds coming from pipes and nearby windows, the faded sounds of dogs barking in the distance. ‘Was it emerald?’, she thought as she walked into the Market, her mind set on finding the fabric that once caught her eye but she could never remember exactly what it looked like.

The Market never felt real to her. The vendors’ faces were obscured by the wide brims of their hats and deep hoods, their voices brittle and hushed, a slight burning scent filled the area, nobody ever knew where it was coming from. To one who wasn’t used to the smell, it’d be bothersome, but to everyone else, it seemed to walk amongst us, very calm and welcoming, so nobody spoke of it, giving the unknown aroma its own sense of privacy.

She continued, did her causal head-nods and pierced lipped ‘hello’s to those she passed, she admired how everyone minded their business. She moved past stalls of yellowed lace, rusted sewing machines, and broken mannequins slumped in twisted poses that were intricate yet unsettling. She had a habit of giving each mannequin its own name and characteristics about themselves. She always wondered if they came alive at night, danced around the Market, tried on clothes and truly brought them to life, or maybe this was her childhood obsession with The Night At The Museum. Her thoughts always ran so quickly, but she then paused, and there it was.

It was a bolt of fabric, impossibly vibrant, and stacked atop a teetering pile. Deep green, threaded with gold patterns so intricate they looked grown rather than stitched. She traced her finger along the pattern, the circled subtractions fit perfectly around the end of her thumb and she circled the largest one about four times, maybe more, but who was counting? The fabric was softer than breath but dense, as though holding something locked between its threads, almost as if you could split the fabric into two pieces, just as you would a plie of toilet paper out of randomness. She was in awe, she wondered -

“Good eyes!”

The voice snapped her out of the conversation she was having with herself. The vendor was small and wiry, their eyes gently cracked and the bags underneath them seemed to perfectly rest above their cheeks, a welcoming glance. At first she barely registered the voice or what was said as she was observing the fabric. “How much?”, her voice cracked, why does it do that at the most random times? She thought.

“Not everything has a price, dear”

The vender responded as they reached out their hands towards the fabric, they stretched long, calloused and one could clearly see that these hands have worked with fabric for years. They’ve created many stories and persona’s for those who wore the Pieces.

“But, everything has a cost”

It’s now 11pm. She didn’t remember much from the walk home. The fabric laid across her, weighted and heavy, as she sat up - poking herself with a loose pin that was lying next to her finger. She paused and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself back up, standing clumsily, tripping over her slippers that sat beneath her. Once her balance was restored, once she was somewhat attentive and awake again, she felt so confused as she looked at the bright blue fabric resting across her couch, staring back at her.

“I bought this?” She asked as she scratched her head, looking through her bags for a receipt, but nothing was found.

…It happened again.