Crimson Stitch

Scrambling across jagged scaffolding last night tore a ragged gash along the cuff of my leather coat, and I refuse to wear damaged raiment. Retreating into the gloom of the study, I vaulted onto the workbench where an open wooden notions box lay among scattered tools. I seized a heavy, curved steel needle and a spool of thick crimson waxed thread. Guiding the scarlet line cleanly through the needle's eye, I braced my boots against the scarred timber and drove the cold steel straight through the tough hide. With a fierce yank, the seam pulled taut. A grand, blood-red mend, claimed strictly by my own hand.