Kairos was a city of hungers old ones and new ones.
It stretched its claws toward the sky each morning, glittering with possibilities it rarely kept.
But for Iraaya, hunger had begun to change its shape. No longer gnawing at her belly alone, it burned deeper now in her palms, her pulse, her very breath.
The trial day at Elysian Drapes had not just opened a door; it had cracked open a world. And with that crack came light. And shadows.
Two days later, she stood outside Panna Tailors earlier than usual, as dawn still pinked the sky. Her jute bag weighed heavier this morning stuffed with fabric scraps, embroidery samples, sketch papers, and the shawl she would not leave behind.
Today was not another trial. Today, she would officially begin.
Amma was inside already, as always, bent over a sleeve hem. The iron hissed steadily in the background.
"You're early," Amma said without looking up.
"I wanted to tell you first. They offered me the job." A pause.
The needle stilled. Then a quiet,
"I know."
"How?" Iraaya asked, setting her bag down gently.
"Good news has a way of showing on the face before it's spoken." Iraaya's throat tightened.
She reached for words that wouldn't sound like goodbye.
"I'll come here whenever I can. In evenings, maybe. Weekends." Amma pressed the iron firmly onto cotton.
"You don't owe me that."
"But I do." Amma looked up then, her gaze as steady as always but softer than Iraaya had ever seen it.
"You owe yourself. That's enough." The words pressed into Iraaya like a blessing she couldn't accept fully yet.
She worked the morning as usual sweeping, folding, serving tea to a regular customer who grumbled about a delayed petticoat. But her mind vibrated with anticipation. Every thread she touched felt charged.
By noon, Amma wrapped a length of grey silk and handed it to her.
"A little to practice with," she said, voice gruff.
"For your new place. Don't waste it."
"I won't," Iraaya whispered.
Then, with a brief, unsteady smile, she hugged Amma once quick, uncertain.
Amma didn't resist. Just patted her back lightly.
"Go now. Be on time." And with that, Iraaya stepped back into the blistering hum of Kairos, carrying both the silk and the unseen weight of leaving one skin behind.
The building of Elysian Drapes gleamed more sharply today. Glass facades always seemed colder when entered alone. But Iraaya's spine held straighter now.
At the reception, the same woman greeted her with a flicker of recognition.
"Third floor. Ms. Kohli is expecting you." In the elevator, her heart galloped again. Not from fear. From knowing this wasn't a trial anymore. It was a beginning she had stitched with her own fingers.
The studio smelled of dye and ambition. Sunlight poured across the wooden floors. Designers flitted between worktables, their voices clipped and brisk.
Aanya Kohli stood by a long cutting table, examining swatches with a senior designer. She looked up as Iraaya entered.
"You're early. Good." Iraaya smiled, breathless.
"I couldn't stay away." Aanya handed her a slim file.
"Here's your orientation packet. You'll assist across sections the first month observe, handle fabric prep, minor stitching. I'll review your progress weekly."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And one more thing." Aanya's gaze sharpened.
"This is not Panna Tailors. You'll need to move faster. We cater to clients with expectations. Precision is everything. But so is pace."
"I understand."
"I think you do."
For the next four hours, Iraaya's world blurred into motion. First, she shadowed a cutter named Nayan, who wielded fabric scissors like a sculptor's chisel. He barely glanced at her but spoke in brisk bursts.
"Pin sharp edges. Never tug raw silk it stretches. Always chalk mark with a light hand." She memorised every movement. Then came the dye room a labyrinth of vats and hanging panels dripping colour. The air hung thick with chemical tang. An assistant named Reema showed her how to fix dyes without blotching.
"No trembling hands here," Reema said with a smirk.
"You've got calm fingers?"
"I'll make them calm," Iraaya replied.
By mid-afternoon, she was assigned to the embroidery line. Rows of artisans bent over hoops, fingers darting through sequins and thread like dancers. A quiet world within the larger studio chaos.
"You can help prep the backing fabric," one artisan said.
"Watch first." Iraaya watched.
Then worked. Slowly. Deliberately. Stitch by stitch, her fingers remembered their old flow but strained to learn new ones gold thread, silk floss, beadwork. And beneath it all, her mind throbbed with one pulse: don't falter.
Around 5 PM, as shadows lengthened through the tall windows, Aanya called her into the design review room. A cluster of young designers were pinning sketches onto mood boards.
Silhouettes of gowns, fusion anarkalis, and sharply structured sarees bloomed on the walls.
"This is where garments begin," Aanya said.
"Not with fabric, but with vision. You have that, but it needs polish. I'll assign you a mentor."
A tall woman with a sleek braid and angular features approached.
"Rukmini Singh," she said.
"Senior designer. I'll be supervising you." Iraaya nodded quickly.
"It's an honour." Rukmini eyed her for a moment.
"Don't treat it like one. Treat it like a craft. We don't do honour here. We do work."
"Yes."
Rukmini wasted no time.
"You'll help draft patterns today. Then assist me with draping trials." For hours, they worked side by side. Iraaya soaked in every comment, every correction.
"You're stiff here. See how this shoulder needs ease? Drape is not flat. It breathes."
"Yes," Iraaya said, adjusting the mannequin. At lunch, Aanya passed her in the hallway.
"You look tired," she remarked.
"I'm learning," Iraaya replied.
Aanya smiled faintly. "Good. Stay hungry."
Days blurred into weeks. Each morning, Iraaya woke on the hard mat beneath the tin roof. Each night, she returned with new calluses on her fingers, new lines sketched in her notebook. Slowly, she earned small trust. Rukmini allowed her to suggest sleeve variations. Reema asked her to mix dyes. Even Nayan grunted an occasional "Good" when she prepped silk panels without flaw.
And always, Amma's words rang in her ears: Earn. Learn. Stay sharp.
But the city did not soften. It tested her at every corner missed bus fares, lost coins, days with too little food. Yet she held on. Thread by thread. Stitch by stitch. Because now, her hands were not just sewing garments.
They were sewing a life.
And beneath every hem she stitched, she wove one unspoken vow:
Someday, my name will be sewn in gold too.