“She completely ruined the outfit, Cynthia. She truly wrecked it.”
Cynthia crouched down next to my body and grabbed the fabric with her fingers. She checked the ripped section and subsequently stared into my face with a fierce anger I had not witnessed in a long time.
“Fetch a needle and thread. Plus some cleaning liquid. We refuse to let that lady claim victory.”
On the first floor, Kendall remained completely quiet. She refused to approach our area, simply because she was terrified of Cynthia — she always was. A specific quality regarding how Cynthia stared directly past her caused her deep unease.
During a two-hour window, Cynthia rubbed the dirty spots using trembling fingers and sewed as though her survival required it. She applied citrus drops and strong cleaners to remove the dark marks, and she fixed the torn edges with extremely careful accuracy.
I rested next to her, passing her the necessary items and offering quiet support. Time was running out quickly, yet she refused to slow down.
Once the task was finished, she raised the clothing into the air like a magical achievement.
“Put it on, my dear.”
