The Little Shop on Khun Street

  The young man was small, of indeterminate age. Such a tiny frame with big innocent eyes. Shy maybe but he walked in with purpose. The tailor shop was on Khun Street and had a modicum of success going about filling enough orders to remain viable for the past 7 years. 

  At the chime, the tailor looked up from his work bench and went to greet his customer. He wanted a dark suit. A nice dark suit for a funeral he was attending next week. After the correct condolence procedure, they got to the details and the tailor began measuring, making notes, an upsell here and there. The young man wasn’t interested. He was devoid of emotion, his mind somewhere else.

  The day before the funeral, the young man came by to pick up the suit. He looked as if he’d aged considerably in the span of five days. Worry lines, creases to his smooth face which had made it hard to tell his age earlier now allowed the tailor to reasonably guess, late 20s, possibly into his 30s.

  Not much chit-chat between the two as the tailor made a grand gesture of unveiling the suit and fussed a bit with the fittings. The young man nodded and was ready to depart, wearing the suit. The tailor tsk-tsked at the idea and suddenly realized that the funeral the young man was attending was his own. 

  An idea. The tailor asked how he would like to pay. This shocked the young man out of his reverie and said, next week, I’ll come by with payment. The tailor said no and reminded him that if he were to leave this world with such a large debt, his karma would be tainted. He then offered the young man a way out. You work in this shop and every week, make a $5 payment in this box. The young man looked at the beautiful black lacquered box, couldn’t think of a way out, and so accepted.

  The months went by and he proved to be a diligent worker. He absorbed everything the old tailor showed him. And every week, on Sunday, they would close the shop early, have a bit of tea in the back and the young man would place $5 in the lacquered box.

  It was perhaps in year two that the tailor found the young man whistling. There was a hint of a smile one afternoon. After pressing, the young man admitted to having met a lovely girl from the neighboring village and had started seeing her. It wasn’t long after that a lovely baby girl named Wadee came into their lives. Where once there was nothing but frowns and worry, was replaced with smiles and laughter. And every Sunday, money in the box.

  The tailor invited the young man to bring his fiancée and Wadee by the shop. Wadee immediately found a scrap of pink silk that had fallen under a table and clutched it so hard that no one dared to pry it from her grasp. The shop had found its equilibrium. The fiancée would sweep and clean and prepare the afternoon tea. Wadee would sit on the tallest counter and watch and grasp her pink silk and coo contentedly. As for the young man, he began running the shop more and more with expert efficiency. 

  On the last Sunday of August, of the 4th year since the making of the funeral suit, the young man placed his final $5 in the black lacquered box. Now that his debt was paid, he didn’t know what to expect from the old tailor. As he closed the box, the tailor called over the young man’s fiancée and presented her the box. The tailor had matched the amount owed and now offered her the dowry she needed to marry the young man that he knew her parents couldn't afford. Emotion swept over them. They cried tears of joy and couldn’t find the words to thank the old tailor.

  The wedding was a grand affair and what was once a funeral suit, had become a wedding suit. Wadee was galloping around still with her pink silk scrap, though now completely faded, but she didn’t mind and used it as a ribbon to tie her long raven hair.

  The years went by and the shop survived. The family grew, another girl followed by a boy. Then, on another final Sunday in August, 9 years in fact, the tailor closed the shop early and asked that they have tea in the back of the shop. There, on the rickety table, lay three wrapped packages. Wadee grabbed hers first and tore into it. It was a pillow, maybe a foot square, made from the same pink silk that she had found so many years before. She grabbed it to her tiny frame like a long lost friend. 

  The young wife was next and found a stunning traditional dress, with some of the same pink silk, though this the tailor had sent out, not being as proficient with dresses as he was with suits. 

  The final gift was that old black lacquered box that the family had brought back after the wedding in observance of their good fortune. The young man picked it up and found it rather heavy in his shaking hands. He opened it and inside were the old tailor’s cutting shears. The mark of a true tailor. The young man was dumbfounded and he too was clutching the box to his small frame, mirroring Wadee and her pillow. The old tailor merely smiled, grunted, hugged them all and left. 

  They never knew where. In fact, they never even knew his name.

  The little shop is still there, on Kuhn Street. It’s prospered over the years. Wadee is the Lady of the Shop now and they recently added a second one just down the street for dresses.

  And so, on the last Sunday of every August, a ritual was created whereby the family gathered in the back of the shop, in front of the black lacquered box underneath the cutting shears that the young man had mounted on the wall and remembered. This is where they were given a chance at life, given a purpose, created a family and found love.