The tiny crochet store on the corner of the street wasn't famous, nor was it modern. But it had a soft charm — like old lace and fresh lavender. The air always smelled of warm cotton and cherry blossom tea.
She stood behind the wooden counter, sorting yarn balls into shades of dawn and dusk. Her fingers moved gracefully, looping threads like she was weaving pieces of her own heart into each skein.
Then he walked in.
For the third day in a row.
He wasn't like the other students. His fingers were clumsy. His stitches uneven. He didn't even carry a proper crochet hook — just borrowed one every time. Yet he always came.
Always sat on the same stool, near her.
Always watched quietly, as if he didn't want to blink and miss the way she held the thread.
Today, she finally looked up.
"Um… beginner classes are that side," she said gently, tilting her head toward the other corner, where two women were laughing over chunky yarn.
He nodded quickly, like he already knew. Then hesitated.
"I… I'll go in a bit," he said, avoiding her gaze. "I like watching from here first."
She blinked.
"Oh," she said simply, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
A moment passed.
She went back to sorting threads, heart a little louder now.
He sat there quietly again. Not saying much. Not moving.
Then suddenly, he asked, "What color is that?"
She looked at the yarn in her hand. Soft rose beige, with a hint of cream.
"Blush morning," she replied. "It's my favorite shade. Feels like a memory."
He smiled a little. "That's... pretty."
There was more he wanted to say.
Like how she looked like a memory.
But he didn't.
The air between them was warm, but heavy — like two cups of tea left untouched. Like a quiet wish neither of them could speak out loud.
Just then, the doorbell rang again — a group of cheerful customers entered.
She quickly stepped away, greeting them.
He watched her from the corner, fingers loosely wrapped around the thread she left behind.