Gathering the strength to enter, she took a deep breathe and crossed the threshold. Dimly lit, the dust thickened air was not what caused her to gasp and cover her mouth, but rather what lay before her. Grimy and rusted, the machine called to her.
Learning to sew from the dwarves had been a saving grace. After her “rescue”, late nights at her machine often became her safe haven; his steps creaking the floor as he passed by in the hall. Heart racing, her breath caught, the silence of that step was deafening.
Some things cannot be mended.
This prompt courtesy of Rochelle Wiscoff Fields and the Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompts are to be responded to in 100 words or less. Come join the fun.