Patterns and Pleats
Over the next month, the factory floor became a secret garden. They developed a language of glances and small gestures.
Zayan began arriving an hour early, bringing two cups of coffee—black for him, and sweet with condensed milk for her, just the way the floor workers liked it. They sat on the loading dock as the sun rose over the industrial district, painting the grey concrete in hues of bruised purple and gold.
"Why do you stay?" Zayan asked one morning. "You're faster than the machines, Amara. You could design. You could lead a whole company."
Amara looked at her hands, the small nicks and scars of a life in production. "My mother died at a machine three rows down. She used to say that every garment we make carries a piece of a person's day. I'm not just sewing fabric; I'm sewing the shirts people wear to first dates, the dresses they wear to funerals. It's a heavy responsibility."
Zayan reached out, hesitating before covering her hand with his. "I used to think this place was just numbers on a spreadsheet. You made it human for me."
But the world outside the factory gates wasn't as soft as their morning coffee. The rumors began to swirl like lint in the ventilation shafts. A "Head Worker" and the "Prince of Polyester"—it was a scandal waiting to happen.