Resale

The cool, bare floor failed to hold its own against the sunlight that streamed in through the open window. She paused momentarily to wipe her forehead before embracing the coarse material.

Her needle went in and out of the fabric, the frequency of its motion in phase with the leaky faucet. Her bare skin was chafed wherever it came in contact with the fabric, but she continued to sew. Her task was not trivial; these two edges were destined to be together. Her stitches had to be resilient, capable of withstanding anything.

She was making the merchant a new home. Every stitch mattered, if only to the grain merchant who lay dead beside her. He sold death in his sacks of produce, and now, she was returning the favour at prices nobody could beat.

She smiled, satisfied, as she knotted the end of the twine she'd been using to sew.

(This piece is exactly 150 words long; I wrote it with the intention of writing 'microfiction'. I realise I've come back to writing about mindless, meaningless murder all over again, but I can't help myself...)