Chapter 2: A Worn-Out Jacket

The Sewing Group at the Street Corner was tucked behind the Supply and Marketing Cooperative, a connected stretch of three old rooms where the plaster had peeled back to reveal the dark, grimy brickwork underneath. A blackboard leaned against the entrance, chalk scribbles on it reading "Fabric Processing, Hemming & Alterations," the letters so scrawled it looked like the wind had blown through them more than once. Lin Qiaoyun walked in carrying her bundle, her shoes dragging on the dusty concrete floor, making a faint rustling sound. Inside, a dozen sewing machines thumped in unison, their treadles pumping up and down, spools of thread spinning until your eyes glazed over. The air was thick with the sharp smell of motor oil mixed with raw cotton. Along the wall stood a row of wooden shelves stacked with fabric scraps and half-finished jobs, each pinned with a slip of paper bearing a name. The slips were curled at the edges, some already turned yellow. Aunt Zhou stood by the machine at the very back, a stick of chalk powder pinched between her fingers, gesturing as she explained a sleeve pattern to someone. She heard the door creak and her eyelids lifted just enough to appraise Lin Qiaoyun, her gaze sweeping from the girl’s hair down to her toes.

"Here we are."

Flat. Cold. Lin Qiaoyun murmured, "Here I am," and set her bundle on a long bench by the door. She didn't push her way inside. The paint on the bench was chipped, and the wood felt cold against her hands. Lin Xiaoman followed close behind, her eyes catching on the pungent smell, her little nose wrinkling. She stared fixedly at an enamel mug in the corner, where the tea had gone cold and half a steamed bun floated inside, her Adam’s apple bobbing as she swallowed. Lin Qiaoyun pulled her toward the bench, her fingertips cool, and whispered, "Stop looking around."

Aunt Zhou strolled over, sizing her up, her eyes lingering longest on Lin Qiaoyun’s hands. They weren't exactly pale; there were calluses on the knuckles and old puncture scars in the web of the thumb, with the blue veins standing out slightly. Aunt Zhou hummed, rummaged through the lowest shelf, and pulled out a cloth bundle. She dumped it on the bench. The wrapping fell away to reveal a grey, dusty old jacket. The fabric was heavy, carrying a damp smell.

"Half a day," Aunt Zhou said. "Make it wearable. If you can't fix it, pack your things and get out."

Lin Xiaoman’s mouth worked faster than her brain: "Aunt Zhou, this jacket is torn to shreds—"

"Shreds?" Aunt Zhou turned to glare at her, brow furrowed. "Your sister hasn't even said a word yet."

Lin Qiaoyun lifted the jacket. It was old coarse cloth, washed so many times it had gone white. The front placket was worn into a fluffy fuzz, and a tear had split the left elbow, ripping from the joint all the way down the forearm, loose threads dangling like frayed nerves. The collar was loose too, gaping open like the maw of a snarling beast. She turned the jacket inside out, inspecting the Stitch lines, breathing shallowly.

Her finger traced the seam.

It was cold under her touch, like touching someone else's warmth. Fragments of an image floated before her eyes: an old man with a hunched back sat under a single oil lamp, a Thimble on his finger, stitching with meticulous precision. The Stitch work was even, but when he reached the curve under the arm, his pace slowed, pausing after every stitch—his eyesight must have been failing, forcing him to bring his nose close to the fabric, almost touching it. She looked back at the tear on the elbow. It hadn't ripped all at once. There were two old marks; someone had patched it before, using a darker thread, the Stitch work tight and dense, the kind of careful, shameless effort you use when you don't want to embarrass the kid by looking ragged in public.

She got it.

This wasn't just some random piece of rubbish tossed to the side. The person who made it had decades of skill and did it with care, but the maker had grown old, his eyes failing, unable to hold the tension properly under the arm, creating a natural weak point. The person who wore it had thick arms; every movement strained the fabric, wearing it thin first, then ripping it open. After the tear, someone else had patched it—meticulous, but their hands weren't as steady as the original maker's.

Lin Qiaoyun folded the jacket back up and looked at Aunt Zhou. "When it's fixed, it counts as my work, right?"

"We'll talk about whose work it is once it's fixed." Aunt Zhou leaned back against her machine, picked up her enamel mug, and tapped the rim against the metal body of the sewing machine with a crisp *ding*. "The machine at the far end is empty. Use it."

"I don't use machines," Lin Qiaoyun said. "The fabric is too loose. If the needle runs fast, the edges will unravel. I'll have to take it apart and cut it again."

The hum of the machines didn't stop, but several hands slowed down. A round-faced woman across the room looked up, exchanging a skeptical, curious glance with her neighbor. Aunt Zhou paused her drinking, didn't stop her, just set the mug down, the water swirling inside. "Go ahead. If you mess it up, it's on you."

Lin Qiaoyun found a clear spot on the table and spread the jacket out flat. She started unpicking the seams. It was slow work. She used the tip of an old, sharpened pair of scissors, picking away thread by thread, extracting the entire row of patch stitches without snagging a single fiber of the cloth. Sunlight poured through the high window, motes of dust dancing in the beams. Lin Xiaoman crouched beside her, organizing the thread heads, unable to help herself but ask: "Sister, are you really taking it all the way apart? Those patches are so sturdy."

"They're sturdy in the wrong place," Lin Qiaoyun said, not looking up, her movements fluid. "The patch weighs down the fabric. The fabric can't breathe. The original waistline was at the chest. The maker pushed it down an inch to make it looser, but the result is that every time the arm moves, all the tension snaps to the elbow."

"How did you figure that out?"

"The Stitch work told me." She flipped the unpicked front panel for Lin Xiaoman to see. The fabric wrinkles were layered. "Look at this line. It gets hurried the lower you go. The maker knew it wasn't working and got flustered."

The comment was quiet, but the room went silent for a beat. The older seamstress sitting in the back dropped her scissors and glanced over, her eyes deep and unreadable.

Once it was unpicked, there were just patches of cloth, spread across the entire table. The torn elbow was missing a corner that couldn't be rejoined. Lin Qiaoyun measured it with her hands, already changing her plan. No jacket. There wasn't enough fabric to make a jacket without it looking like a patchwork quilt. She visualized the new garment in her mind: sleeveless, front opening, cinched at the waist, wide shoulders.

"Xiaoman, pass me that spool of thread."

She didn't use chalk to mark lines; she went straight to the scissors. The other workers watched, holding their breath. The shearing of the fabric was loud and sharp. If she missed by half an inch, the cloth would be ruined. But she cut steady. Piece by piece, arranged neatly, not a scrap was wasted. The torn elbow section, she cut diagonally along the tear's trajectory, turning the gap into two curved flaps, left and right, to form the diagonal hem of a vest—the damage had become a design feature.

The round-faced woman leaned in to look, muttering, "Would this even work..."

When she started sewing, she used large Stitch work first to test the fit. She put it on the mannequin—that was an old cotton-stuffed frame the group used—and stepped back two paces to look. After a moment, she stepped in to tighten the back waist by one Stitch and moved the shoulder seam inward slightly. The needle and thread moved through the fabric, making a soft, frictional hum.

"Here," she said to Lin Xiaoman, her gaze softening, "the original maker was too timid. The fabric is wide, but a person has a waist. Forcing it straight just tortures the person wearing it."

By the time she was done, the sun hadn't even set. She plucked out the stray threads from the vest, brushed the loose lint smooth with a damp cloth in one direction, then held it up and shook it out. She laid it on the bench in front of Aunt Zhou.

Only then did Aunt Zhou leave her machine. She didn't speak right away. She just touched it.

First, she ran her palm over the front panel, sliding from the collar to the hem, moving slowly, feeling the texture of the fabric. Second, she turned it inside out, running her fingers over the internal seams, pinching them one by one. She paused at the underarm curve, her thumb rubbing over the seam, rubbing it again, as if checking for a specific order. Third, she picked up the vest, folded it in half, then in half again, crouched down to check if the hem was straight.

The room was truly quiet now. Two of the machines had stopped, leaving only the distant, faint sound of bicycle bells from the street outside.

Aunt Zhou placed the vest down and stood up, looking at Lin Qiaoyun. She said nothing.

Lin Xiaoman stood to the side, clutching a thread end, swallowing hard, her fingers trembling slightly.

"The fabric is the same fabric," Aunt Zhou finally spoke, her voice low. "The weight in your hand hasn't changed. ...But now it looks like clothes."

She reached out and picked the vest up again, turning it to show where the two diagonal flaps closed over the original hole, inspecting the Stitch work. After a moment, she looked up. "Whose jacket is this?"

Lin Qiaoyun answered, "I don't know. The person who sent it didn't say."

"You didn't ask?"

"Asking might have cost me time," Lin Qiaoyun said. "I had half a day. I spent most of it just unpicking the threads. I didn't have the luxury to analyze it twice."

Aunt Zhou let out a sharp exhale, not quite a laugh, but the corners of her mouth moved. "You are straightforward."

She dropped the vest on the table, braced her hands on the edge, and leaned forward, staring at Lin Qiaoyun. Her eyes were different from before. Earlier, she’d looked at Lin like someone begging for a bowl of rice; now she looked at her like an item of inventory, assessing the quality.

"One more question," Aunt Zhou said. "You took the jacket apart. How did you decide to alter it into this shape? You had enough fabric for a small vest, yet you made it open-front and cinched the waist. Who told you to do that?"

Lin Qiaoyun’s fingers rested on those two diagonal seams, rubbing them gently. She didn't say what she had seen. In the Street Corner, if you mentioned visions, people would just think you were having a fit.

"The fabric tells you how many times it was washed and how many years it was worn," she said slowly. "The front panel is most worn at the chest. That means the person who wore it spent all day hunched over work, their chest rubbing against things. The collar is loose because they pulled it over their head to put it on. The left elbow is torn and patched—meaning he used his right hand for heavy work, making the left side vulnerable. A person who wears his clothes like that needs a smock over the jacket anyway. Making the jacket wide is a waste of space."

She paused, her gaze dropping into the shadow of the vest.

"So I made it narrower and shorter. Front opening is easier to slip on and off, doesn't get in the way of work. This vest goes on the inside, with a jacket over it. No one would know what's underneath."

Aunt Zhou didn't answer.

She picked up the vest again, slower this time, her fingers pausing on the shoulder seam. The breath of the other workers in the room seemed to hold, the air itself solidifying.

"The owner of this jacket," Aunt Zhou said, her voice dropping, each word landing with weight. "Tell me—who is he?"

Lin Qiaoyun looked up.

Aunt Zhou’s hand was still resting on the vest, her knuckles slightly white. Her gaze wasn't just testing her anymore. It was waiting for an answer she already suspected, but needed to hear spoken aloud. Beneath the doubt, there was a long-suppressed pain and helplessness.

Lin Qiaoyun looked into her eyes.

"Aunt Zhou," she said. "This jacket isn't yours. But you know the man who wore it."