The week before Christmas always feels like a race no one trained for.
The air outside is heavy with rain, the fans inside hum over the scent of beeswax polish, and the front door bell hasn’t stopped tinkling all day.
Pete leans against the counter, watching another flustered husband clutching a teacup and saucer as if it might bite him.
“If it weren’t for the last minute,” he says, “nothing would ever get done.”
He’s right, of course.
Every year, the same parade of men appear mid-December, wide-eyed and grateful, muttering things like “She likes flowers… right?” while I wrap their treasures in brown paper and string.
Beckham has stationed himself beneath the counter, purring in judgement, the shop cat equivalent of Saint Nick ticking his list.
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Late in the afternoon, the crowd thins and the rain begins again — that warm Mackay summer rain that sounds like applause on the iron roof.
I start laying out more tissue paper from the old paper patterns I wrap things in. when I notice it: the golden thread, back again, winding between tea cups and brooches, glinting under the lights.
But this time it’s everywhere.
Across the floor, over the counter, through the Singer’s spool and back again, looping the shop together like it’s sewing up the year itself.
When I follow it, it leads me to the wardrobe.
The door, as always, is open just a fraction.
On the Singer sits a small folded card, written in Elsie’s familiar looping hand:
“A gift well chosen, or well remembered, is the same thing.
The magic is never in the buying — it’s in the keeping.”
And beneath it, a single spool of golden thread, nearly finished.
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Pete joins me, wiping rain from his arms.
“She’s been busy again, hasn’t she?” he says softly.
I nod, smiling. “She’s wrapping up her year.”
He grins, that quiet half-smile that’s lasted us thirty-five Christmases.
“Don’t worry, love. She’s not gone — just between stitches.”
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We close early.
The rain’s heavier now, flooding the gravel outside.
Inside, the fairy lights flicker against the windows, and Beckham bats lazily at the trailing thread near his paw.
I lock the door and turn for one last look.
The wardrobe stands in its corner, half-open, golden light seeping faintly from within.
“Keep the stories stitched,” a whisper seems to hum.
“See you next year.”
Thanks for joining me with this little tale. Let me know if you enjoyed it. The video version is on Instagram💛Merry Christmas
Deb 💋