The brass bell above the door chimes at 2:47 PM. I don't look up from the embroidery hoop in my lap. Whoever it is can wait. I'm finishing the last petal on a commission—white camellia on one side, its shadow on the other. The kind of work that takes three weeks and costs more than most people's rent.

"Excuse me."

Male voice. Familiar in a way that makes my shoulders lock. I keep stitching. In, out, in, out. The needle knows what to do even when my brain goes quiet.

"I have an appointment. Two-thirty. Wyatt Richardson."

My hand stops. The needle hovers above silk. I set the hoop down carefully on the workbench. Turn around.

He's standing in the doorway of my studio like he has every right to be here. Tailored coat. Expensive watch. Hair a little shorter than it used to be. He's looking around the space—at the bolts of silk on the walls, the spools of hand-dyed thread arranged by color, the framed pieces that have been featured in *Textile Arts Monthly*. His eyes pass over everything like he's cataloging. Evaluating.

Then they land on me.

He blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens. Closes. "Rylee?"

I stand. Smooth my hands down my work apron. "Mr. Richardson. You're late."

"I—" He takes a step forward. Stops. "I didn't know. The website just said R. Patterson. I thought—"

"You thought what?"

He's staring at me like I'm something he can't quite bring into focus. I know what he's seeing. I'm thirty pounds lighter than I was. My hair is shorter. I don't wear the soft colors I used to. Today it's all black—turtleneck, trousers, the work apron that's covered in loose threads. I look like someone who builds things with her hands. Someone who doesn't need anyone.

Someone who isn't his wife anymore.

"You look... different," he says finally.

"It's been three years." I move to the worktable. Pull out the order form his assistant submitted online. "You requested a custom piece. Anniversary gift. I have some preliminary sketches based on the specifications. Would you like to see them?"

"Rylee, I—"

"The base price starts at eight thousand." I spread the sketches across the table. Don't look at him. "Timeline is six to eight weeks depending on complexity. Fifty percent deposit required. I don't do rush orders."

Silence. I can feel him watching me. Can feel the weight of everything he wants to say pressing against the air between us.

"How have you been?" His voice is softer now. Careful. Like I'm something that might break.

I touch the silver thimble at my throat. "Fine."

"The studio is... it's really impressive. Your work. I saw the piece in the lobby. The cherry blossoms. It's beautiful."

"Thank you."

More silence. He shifts his weight. Clears his throat. "Listen, I know this is awkward. I didn't know you'd be... I mean, I'm glad you're doing well. Really. You deserve—"

"Mr. Richardson." I finally look up at him. His face is older. Tired around the eyes. "Did you want to proceed with the commission or not?"

He flinches. "Right. Yes. Sorry. The sketches are great. Angelique will love them."

Angelique. Her name in his mouth still sounds wrong. Like a word in a language he learned but never mastered.

"How's Maisy?" he asks suddenly. "Is she with your mom? I always meant to reach out, but things got complicated and—"

The needle I'm holding slips. Clatters against the table. I stare at him. At this man who used to sleep in my bed. Who used to hold our daughter while I made coffee. Who signed divorce papers and walked away and apparently never once asked what happened to his child.

"Maisy is dead," I say. My voice doesn't shake. "She's been dead for three years."

All the color drains from his face. "What?"

"Six months old. Allergic reaction. You weren't there."

"I... Angelique said..." He's backing up now. One step. Two. "She told me Maisy was with your family. That you took her when we split. That you didn't want me to have contact because—"

"She lied."

He pulls out his phone. Starts scrolling like he's looking for proof that I'm wrong. That this is some kind of mistake. His hands are shaking. "I can... Let me... I want to help. I should've been there. God, Rylee, I should've—"

He reaches into his coat. Pulls out a checkbook. Starts writing. His handwriting is messy, panicked. He rips the check free. Holds it out to me.

I look at it. Ten thousand dollars. Like money can fix anything. Like he can just pay his way out of being the kind of man who didn't know his daughter died.

I take the check. He relaxes slightly.

Then I tear it in half. Precise. Clean. Let both pieces fall to the floor between us.

"Get out of my studio," I say. "Don't come back."

He stares at the torn check. At me. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns and walks out. The brass bell chimes behind him.

I stand there for a long time. Looking at the two halves of paper on my floor. Then I pick them up. Fold them carefully. Tuck them into the evidence folder in my desk drawer.

Every thread matters.

Even the broken ones.