Even the air in Kairos seemed thinner now, charged with an invisible current that hummed beneath the skin.
The scent of monsoon rain on stone, the flash of metallic thread in workplace windows everything seemed sharper, brighter.
Iraaya was no longer a girl quietly stitching at Panna Tailors, hidden in the shadows of her sister's shawl. She moved through the city with new eyes, her spine a little straighter, her hands no longer trembling beneath the gaze of the wealthy.
Her days at Elysian Drapes unfolded like an intricate garment in progress. Each morning began early the sound of scissors slicing through silk, the perfume of starch and lavender rising from bolts of freshly ironed cloth. The flow of the studio was precise, unforgiving: pins clicked against glass tables, industrial machines throbbed like distant drums. And in the centre of it all, Iraaya absorbed everything.
Rukmini became her guide and taskmaster. If Iraaya thought she had learned discipline at Panna, this was another realm entirely.
"Sketch this silhouette you have ten minutes."
"Thread this needle for beading. If your hand shakes, you will ruin the whole piece."
"Look at this muslin drape. What is wrong with it? Speak." Day after day, Iraaya's answers grew sharper. Her sketches lost their childish hesitation. Her stitches straightened into rows of quiet precision. But it wasn't only technical skill that Rukmini drilled into her.
"You must learn to see," she said one afternoon, unfurling a bolt of handwoven tussar silk.
"Every fabric speaks its own language. This one-" she ran her fingers across the rough weave-"wants to be sculpted, not draped." Iraaya leaned closer, her fingertips brushing the cloth reverently.
"Listen before you act. If you force your will onto the material, it will betray you." The words rooted deep.
She began to carry a small notebook everywhere filling it with feverish notes: Chiffon whispers. Satin demands attention. Wool resists heat. And as her understanding grew, so did the complexity of her assignments. She was no longer fetching coffee or sweeping threads from the floor. One morning, Aanya herself passed through the design floor, her presence part lightning storm, part glacier. She stopped by Iraaya's table, where a half-sketched sleeve pattern lay beside her notebook.
"Who drew this?"
"I did, ma'am." Aanya's sharp eyes lingered on the pencil lines.
"Passable." Then, after a pause:
"Do not sketch what you think will please us. Sketch what the garment wants to be." With that, she moved on.
The words haunted Iraaya for days.
Back at the shelter, life remained harsh and raw. The roof leaked whenever the rains came. Warm water was a luxury. Nights were spent beneath thin blankets, shared with Vicky and four other girls stitched together by circumstance.
But Iraaya no longer shrank from this life. Instead, she carried her sketchbook home each evening, working beneath the dim bulb while others braided hair or swapped jokes.
"You're walking different these days," Vicky said one night, watching her with a crooked grin.
"Am I?" "Like you've got a secret. Like you know something we don't." Iraaya smiled.
"Maybe I do."
"Designer girl," Vicky teased.
"Don't forget us when you're rich."
"I'll never be rich," Iraaya replied softly.
"But I'll make something that lasts." Vicky tossed a beaded hairclip at her.
"Then you already are."
As the weeks unfurled, the studio's pulse quickened. The Annual Elysian Showcase approached a glittering event where the house would unveil its newest collection to the city's elite. For the first time in decades, Aanya herself would present an entirely new capsule line: Veins of Light.
The studio transformed into a forge. Designers and tailors pushed past exhaustion, swarming like bees around towering racks of cloth.
The air smelled of scorched thread and adrenaline. Rukmini began keeping Iraaya late after hours.
"I need an extra pair of hands," she said one crisp evening. "And not one that trembles."
"I will stay," Iraaya replied without hesitation.
That night, under the stark white lights of the silent studio, Iraaya stood before a half-draped mannequin.
Rukmini's demonstration was brief a masterclass in control. Silk chiffon seemed to float beneath her fingers, settling into a perfect cascade with barely a touch.
"Now you." Iraaya's heart pounded.
The fabric on the table gleamed, deep crimson, destined for the runway. She gathered it gently, remembering: drape breathes. Let it lead.
At first, her hands were too cautious. The silk resisted her hesitancy. But she forced herself to exhale, to trust the fabric. Slowly, her fingers guided the material, pinning it where it wanted to rest, smoothing it where it fought back. By midnight, her arms ached, her feet burned, but three blouses stood draped and ready under Rukmini's gaze. The older woman examined them in silence, then handed Iraaya a slim black box. Inside lay a gleaming silver needle - sleek, impossibly fine.
"Your own," Rukmini said quietly.
"You've earned it." Iraaya's breath caught.
She held the needle as if it were gold.
As showcase day drew closer, Iraaya's tasks multiplied. One afternoon, Aanya herself handed her a folded muslin prototype.
"Drape this in final fabric by tomorrow. I trust your hands more than half the interns."
"I will not fail," Iraaya whispered.
That night, beneath the skeletal frame of her borrowed sewing table, she worked through the hours, crimson and cobalt silks sliding beneath her needle. Beads caught the lamplight like stars. When dawn broke, her fingers were bloodied, her back stiff. But the piece stood ready.
The next morning, Aanya inspected it in silence, her cool gaze lingering. Then a single nod.
"It will walk the runway." Iraaya nearly wept. Showcase night arrived, beneath storm-darkened skies.
The grand hotel was awash in gold light. Cameras flashed. Journalists jostled for space. The elite of Kairos arrived in jeweled waves, silks, diamonds, whispered names.
Backstage, chaos reigned. Stylists darted like swallows, models slipped into garments with practiced ease.
Iraaya hovered near the racks, her heart hammering. Her piece, the cobalt silk gown with gold-threaded blouse, was fitted onto a statuesque model with sculpted cheekbones.
"You did this?" the model asked, eyeing Iraaya.
"Yes."
"Beautiful."
And then the call came. Lights dimmed. Music rose. One by one, the models glided down the runway, each step a ripple through the sea of cameras. When her gown appeared beneath the spotlights, Iraaya's breath caught.
The silk gleamed like a river of night. The gold threads shimmered with every movement. Gasps rippled through the audience. In that blinding moment, Iraaya felt it, her stitch in the fabric of the city. Not a name in the program.
Not yet. But there. Present. Alive. When the show ended, thunderous applause echoed through the hotel.
Backstage, amidst the whirlwind of congratulations, Rukmini approached her.
"You did well," she said simply.
Then Aanya passed by, pausing briefly.
"I see why you stayed late," she said.
"Good."
And that was all. But for Iraaya, it was everything. Weeks later, as the studio returned to its usual hum, Aanya called her into the glass-walled office.
"You have proven yourself," she began.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Do not thank me. The real work begins now." Aanya folded her hands.
"I am moving you to assist on the next capsule collection.
You will sketch under Rukmini's supervision.
If your designs are good enough, they will go to production." Iraaya's pulse thundered.
Sketch.
Design.
Not just sew.
"I will not disappoint you."
"Good. Start tomorrow." That night, beneath the battered roof of the shelter, Iraaya spread her sketchbook beneath the flickering bulb.
Vicky wandered over, leaning on her elbow.
"Those your new babies?"
"Yes."
"They look fierce."
"They will be." Vicky smiled.
"You're not the same girl who came here with a broken shawl."
"No," Iraaya whispered.
"But I still carry her." And she did.
In every stitch.
In every line drawn.
In the silent vow she repeated as she touched the silver needle once more:
Under the needle, one day, I'll rise over this city.