Clara Vexley

High above Widow’s Row, in the dust-thick quiet of an attic that smells of lavender and mildew, Clara Vexley still sews. The windowpanes tremble with wind, the candle guttering at her elbow, but she pays it no mind. Her hands move in rhythm, the soft click of her silver needle echoing through the stillness. Mannequins stand in rows behind her, dressed in half-finished garments, their blank faces turned toward her like an audience waiting for a cue. Every inch of fabric around her glows faintly violet, threads twitching as though alive, drawn to her will. She hums a tune no one remembers, a lullaby that seems both sorrowful and mocking. Sometimes, she pauses to glance at the mirror across the room, where her reflection doesn’t always move when she does. Visitors who stumble upon her workshop speak of her eyes. how they catch the light and shimmer like a dying ember. She greets them with soft warmth, as she reaches for her needle, whispering.