Once, in a town much like this one, there lived a tailor.
He was a skilled tailor, known for his work throughout the kingdom, but he lived a humble life. The King himself had offered him a court position, but the tailor, politely, declined. He had everything he needed right where he was.
Almost everything.
The tailor loved the town that he was raised in. He loved his home: his shop downstairs, a warm bed upstairs. But the tailor’s parents had passed years back, leaving no other children. And though the man had many friends in town, he often found himself lonely, longing for the comfort of a family.
The townspeople couldn’t understand his loneliness. The tailor could have his choice of women, for he was gentle and kind as well as skilled. The town’s women visited him often, bringing him meals they’d cooked, or threads they’d spun. But the tailor always found a way to repay them, darning worn stockings or adding a bit of extra lace to a bodice, all while keeping his affections close.
One fall day, the tailor sat by the window, adding a row of ribbons to a blouse, when his shop’s door swung open.
A Stranger walked in.
The tailor noticed her dress first. It was threadbare and ragged, though the fabric was quite fine, and the cut was still in fashion.
“Hello.”
Her greeting interrupted his scrutiny, and the tailor turned his attention to her. She was not from his town, or from anywhere that he could think of. If not for the state of her clothing, he would have thought she were a royal.
“I’m told you can make a dress out of anything.”
He gathered his wits and stood. “I can.”
She wandered through his shop, her fingers trailing over the dresses on display. “I need a dress of spider silk scattered with morning dew.” She turned back to him. “Can you do that?”
He didn’t consider the impossibility of the request. He could not imagine rejecting her. “I can.”
“I will need it before the next new moon.”
One month. “I’ve other work.”
“Your time will be compensated upon completion.”
“You’ll need to return for fittings.”
She smiled then, as if she knew it was not needed, that he could fit a dress perfectly after a single glance. “Then I’ll return in three days,” she told him, and then his shop was empty once more.
The tailor had no spiderwebs and dew, but he was certain he could create the illusion. He tossed aside his other work, and began to pin lengths of the lightest gossamer.
***
Three days passed.
The tailor’s patrons grew disgruntled, for he had fallen behind on stitching their clothes, and refused to take on new work. The tailor didn’t care. He had thoughts only for the airy dress, barely heavy enough to weigh anything at all.
Just as the sunlight faded, and he tied off the final thread, his door opened.
He recognized her measured steps, so unlike those of the townspeople that rushed about and stomped up a storm.
The Stranger took the dress to the back of the shop. The tailor had a screen there, a mirror and hooks for clothes, a comfortable chair, and warmed bricks to keep away the chill.
“This is fine work,” she declared through the screen. “But it isn’t quite right.”
He knew it wasn’t. He had made it so.
For two hours, he pinned and stitched the dress around her, and wondered at the cold, fresh scent that followed her movements.
Once the dress was shaped to her liking, and she was changing into her old rags, he asked her to stay for supper, and she agreed.
Had anyone been watching the tailor’s home, curious about his strange behavior, they would’ve seen an unfamiliar figure slip out his door before the dawn’s light colored the sky.
But nobody was.
***
At first, the townspeople worried. When the women came to his door with a warm pie or a torn stocking, he would turn them away, if he opened the door at all. When the men came to invite him for a drink, or to talk some sense into him, they were met with silence.
They knew he lived. Every day, they saw him through his window, fretting over his workbench. Every night, they saw his silhouette against a light that seemed to never go out.
Over the days, and then the weeks, the men stopped coming, and the women, too.
With time, only one figure ever came to his door.
The tailor trembled with pride every time he heard her slow steps approach. He had used up his most precious materials, gifts from past clients. Lace so delicate, he had to wear soft gloves to work with it, lest it catch on his fingers and tear. Crystal beads that shimmered in the slightest light. Threads spun of pure silver. Yet every time, he left an error for the Stranger to find, an excuse for her to stay as he corrected the dress to her liking.
Three nights before the new moon, the dress was complete. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not bring himself to add a single flaw to it. It was perfect.
“Perfect,” the Stranger agreed that night, delight and sadness in her eyes. “You’ve lost out on a lot of work for me. It’s only fair that I repay you. But not tonight.” She looked out the window. “I’ll return in three day’s time.”
An emptiness nested inside the tailor’s chest.
He had spent the days of a month creating something beautiful, and the nights of a month with a beautiful being. Now he had neither.
The tailor picked up his abandoned projects, and tried to find the spark he once had for them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He could only wonder if she would truly return, or if she had taken his labor, and his affection, and left with both, leaving him with nothing.
But on the night of the new moon, the tailor heard her steps once more. He tossed aside the jacket he’d been trying to patch as he rushed to greet her. The dress flowed around her in an unfelt breeze. She glowed as if she were the winter moon herself, stepping down from the sky.
The Stranger placed a heavy purse on his workbench. “That should be enough to cover your losses.”
He tore his eyes from her just long enough to peek into the bag. It was filled with gold and jewels, more than he’d ever seen in his life. More than the King himself had offered him. But the tailor did not wish for gold or jewels. He turned back to the Stranger, but found only an empty room. If not for the treasure on his workbench, he would have thought her a dream.
The emptiness within him grew through the night.
The tailor woke. Payment for a month’s labor still sat on his workbench.
He wondered if it could warm the cold inside of him.
The tailor filled his pockets with gold and went out into town. He feasted at the pub. He bought himself a gold chain, and some new tools, and a new pair of boots, and a new pair of slippers. He feasted once more. He bought a new tapestry for his bedroom, and a large carved clock he had no use for. He returned to the pub and ate until he felt ill. He bought drinks for himself, and for the women. They asked if he would take them home. The tailor did not wish to go home, so they went to the inn instead.
When the tailor woke in the inn’s finest bed, with a pretty milkmaid at his side and the baker’s daughter stretched over them both, he felt nothing at all.
So he crept from the room, and out the inn, and back to his shop.
Again, the townspeople checked on their tailor. This time, not even a light greeted them. The workshop was dark and silent, as was the home above. Again, the townspeople drifted away.
No one at all came to his door.
***
On the first night of the new moon, the pub owner was counting the month’s money. He picked up a gold coin, and it crumbled between his fingers. He picked up another, and another, and each one fell to dust.
The innkeeper was a friend of his. It wasn’t long before they’d spoken and confirmed that their gold was worthless, as was the cobbler’s, and the jeweler’s, and the weaver’s, and the clockmaker’s. It wasn’t long before they realized that only one man had paid them all in gold that month.
This time, the door swung open at their knock.
They found him in the dark, at his workbench, staring at a pile of dirt. “I’m sorry,” the tailor said, his voice without emotion. “Take it. Take it all. Whatever I owe you.”
They searched the house.
The jeweler took back the chain, and the tools. The cobbler took back the boots, and the slippers, too. The weaver took her tapestry, the clockmaker took his clock. The pub owner and innkeeper had nothing to take back, but the tailor pointed them to his cashbox, so they took what they were owed, and a bit extra for their troubles.
They left him sitting at his workbench.
The day turned to night.
The tailor did not move.
He sat by his window, staring out at the town, and the fields beyond, washed white by moonlight.
The tailor felt a realization, and with it, a memory of anger. It was a dark night. There was no moon in the sky, yet he saw the fields clearly, pale and glowing.
The tailor stood, weak with hunger and exhaustion.
He took one step, and then another.
He left his home.
He left his street.
He left his town.
The tailor stopped at the edge of the fields. He watched the parade of riders, silver light flowing off of them like water.
One horse turned away from the others. It approached him.
The tailor stayed where he was.
The Stranger sat upon her steed, silver as the dress he had made for her. She stopped in front of him, and looked down upon him, and he up to her.
“You took from me.” His voice was empty of emotion.
“I’m sorry.” Her own voice was genuine. “I had no real way to pay you, but I feared you wouldn’t have made the dress if you knew.”
“I speak not of the dress.”
She was silent, as was he.
Other riders slowed in the distance. Other heads, regal and cold, turned to them.
“I suppose you’re wanting it back, then,” she finally said, and he knew that his suspicions were right.
“No. I want you to have it.”
She sighed softly.
“But I need something in its place.”
“I told you. I have nothing to give.”
“Then I will die.”
The Stranger looked to the waiting riders. “I must go.”
“I won’t be here when you return.”
She turned back, and he saw pain in her eyes.
But in him she saw nothing, no gloating, no sorrow. She saw emptiness.
The Stranger hopped off her horse, and stroked its nose, and whispered in its ear. Then she turned to the tailor, took his hand, and led him back to his own home.
He followed, feeling warmth where there had only been weeks of cold.
***
The tailor woke alone.
He brought a hand to his chest, keeping his eyes closed, feeling the rhythmic pulse against his palm. His blood flowing through him sounded so loud after the silence. He savored the sadness, the loneliness, the longing. They were loud, too, after a month of nothing.
At last, the tailor sat up.
He washed up and dressed.
He ate a small meal.
He walked down to his workshop.
The tailor found the jacket he had been patching, and the skirt he had been sewing, and the basket of stockings that needed darning. He opened his window, letting the morning light and frozen air fill his shop, and he got to work.
The villagers were happy to see their tailor return to himself, and he was happy to be back at his workbench. The winter’s chill eased. Cotton stockings replaced woolen ones. The tailor’s shop filled with orders for summer dresses.
The days grew long. The tailor spent the warm evenings in his shop, sewing by the last of the daylight, enjoying the breeze.
He was adding a panel to a skirt when he heard measured footsteps approach his door.
He noticed her dress first.
It was tattered and ragged, but he recognized his own work.
“Hello.”
He looked at her face. His heart ached.
“I’m told you can make a dress of anything.”
“I can,” he whispered.
Her fingers played with a bolt of lace. “I need a dress of sunbeams through spring leaves.” She turned to him. “Can you do that?”
“One month?” he asked.
She tipped her head, curious. “Yes. Before—”
“The next new moon,” he finished.
She considered him. “I’ve been here before.”
He felt a tug of hope. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid I don’t…”
“It’s okay.” The tailor stood. “I’ll make the dress. No payment needed.”
“But—”
He smiled. “No need for lies or tricks. I’ll make it anyway.”
She looked down at her own dress. “You made this?”
“Yes.”
“And I paid you with…”
“Yes.”
She looked back up at him. “And you’ll make me another dress anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you took something else from me last time. But then you gave it back.”
She said nothing.
“I want you to have it again. While you’re here.”
She looked at her hands, and he thought she blushed. There was a glow to her, the warmth of early spring sunlight. He already knew which cloth he’d use, an expensive silk gifted to him by the King, and a golden lace that shimmered and glinted.
“Perhaps I could stay for supper,” she offered with a smile.
–
Izzy Hollow lives in Oregon with her wife and their sentient void shaped like a cat.
© 2025, Izzy Hollow
Halfway Down the Stairs 