Yuki’s tired fingers threaded the needle with the precision of a surgeon and the reverence of a priest. This request had come from a 76-year-old ravaged by bladder cancer. ‘Bury me’, he’d said, voice weak and eyes rheumy, ‘in that white John Lennon suit from the Abbey Road album cover. ‘Specs included.’  

The Singer whirred to life. Yuki guided the fabric beneath the needle, laying a line of chevrons along the hem. Each stitch was perfect. It had to be. It was all she had. Her world had shrunk to this: no TV, no internet, no friends. Just a sketchbook, the machine and the stories of the dead and dying. 

Wind rattled her weatherboard studio. Yuki glanced outside at the maples shedding their summer coats. As clouds smothered the sun, she found herself squinting at her reflection in the smudged window. Her lips curved ruefully at the grey hair fleeing its bun and the several fine silver whiskers curling from her chin. A draft whispered through the gaps in the windowpanes and teased the cuffs of her white linen shirt. Much like a younger brother might urge his sister to play. 

The knock, when it came, was so faint she almost missed it. Yuki’s hand, holding the scissors, paused mid-cut. There it was again, more insistent.  

‘Ms. Goldstein? Hello?’ 

Sighing, she set down her tools, crossed to the front door and waited. 

‘Please, Ms. Goldstein. I need your help.’ 

She turned the knob and opened the door. 

The man on her doorstep straightened with relief, his eyes red-rimmed and cheeks lined with visible veins. His jeans were rumpled and his shirt hastily buttoned, with one gap where trembling fingers had fumbled. He held a trucker hat beside a tote bag slung from his shoulder. 

‘Ms. Goldstein?’ His voice was hoarse, almost stolen by the wind. ‘Are you—Are you the one who makes the garments?’ 

She’d heard desperation before. ‘What’s this about?’ 

‘It’s for my son, Tommy’, he said quietly, eyes on the welcome mat. ‘He … passed recently. Just seventeen.’ 

‘I’m sorry, Mr?’ 

‘Giles.’ 

‘Mr. Giles, but I’m afraid I don’t work with—’ 

‘I know. I was told you don’t make them for boys — but please. Hear me out.’ 

For a moment, nothing was said as Yuki felt memories of her brother coming for her. His face pressed against a window as she biked to the convenience store, waiting for her to return. She gripped the doorknob tighter, blinked, and her brother faded.  

Mr. Giles waded forward, deeper into the silence between them. ‘He was all I had, and he’s gone now. I failed him, and I need to make up for it. This is all I have left.’  

‘I’m sorry’, Yuki muttered. ‘It’s just—I can’t.’ 

‘I want him dressed like it means something. Like his life meant something. I’ve already thought about it, maybe … shorts for the things he loved. Socks for … for the sports he played.’ He paused, voice cracking. ‘And a shirt for the future he’ll …’ He looked away. ‘It wouldn’t be a lot of work.’ 

Yuki’s hand strayed from the doorknob. She looked from Mr. Giles to her worktable, where the half-finished suit lay. A simple, familiar task. This was different.  

Mr. Giles clasped his hands together as if in prayer. ‘The funeral. It’s in five days. Could you find the time, please? I’m begging you, Ms. Goldstein.’ His voice became ragged as if something was lodged in his throat.  

Yuki pulled at a loose thread on her cuff, twirled it around her finger tighter as the urge to create, to help, to heal warmed her. But her heart, scarred and wary, kept up a cold defence. ‘I wish I could’, she said and gently closed the door. Mr. Giles remained on the mat, his mouth open, another plea dying on his lips.  

Back at her worktable, needle in hand, Yuki heard splashing. Mr. Giles dragged his feet through a muddy puddle in her backyard. He approached her window, straining his eyes to see inside. ‘Ms. Goldstein, please.’ 

She jabbed the needle into the pin cushion. 

‘I can’t give him much, but I can give him this. I have photos.’ Mr. Giles rummaged around in his tote bag. 

She unlatched the window, shoved it open and prepared to ask him to leave. But the cool air rushed in, carrying with it a photo from Mr. Giles’ trembling hands. She swatted it away, and it fell to the floor. Yuki felt a shock of regret as Mr. Giles winced behind the glass.  

From her floor, a sun-kissed Tommy, gap-toothed and grinning, looked up at her, drowning in an oversized baseball jersey. She knelt down, picked the photo up, and tenderness invaded. In Tommy she saw her brother, and a small, buried part of her stirred, welcoming the reminder. She’d been running from this for forty years. Had she not run out of breath?  

‘You’ll help?’  

‘Let me think about it.’ Her voice was uncertain but clear. ‘Perhaps, you could …’ She trailed off. 

‘Ms. Goldstein?’ 

She handed back the photo. ‘Perhaps, you could meet me at the park tomorrow? 10am? We’ll take it from there.’ 

Mr. Giles smiled, agreed and turned back across her lawn. Yuki stood by the window, her palms sparkling with sweat, letting the breeze cool them. 

*

Yuki met Mr. Giles at the park gate, 15 minutes late. She’d taken the long route, giving herself more opportunities to decline his offer and hoping he wouldn’t wait. But when she saw him kicking stones at the gate, in the same jeans and wrinkled shirt, Yuki knew only she could help him right now. Her stride lengthened.  

They walked without speaking. A train rumbled in the distance, and Mr. Giles straightened while Yuki clutched her sketchpad to her chest, a shield and a tool. 

‘Let’s start with something simple’, Yuki said. ‘What would you want people to remember about Tommy?’ 

Mr. Giles stopped, rubber soles dragging on the gravel path, his eyes directed toward the top of the eucalyptus. Yuki waited, watching his quivering lip.  

‘He was …’ Mr. Giles began then shook his head. ‘I thought I could — but it’s too much.’ 

Yuki recognised the familiar weight settling over Mr. Giles, like unshed snow on a branch. She could try another tack. ‘Did Tommy have a favourite colour?’ 

The tension in Mr. Giles’ shoulders eased. ‘Blue. Like the sky on a clear day.’ He looked up at the clouds that gasped with rain.  

‘The sky’, she said, ‘full of possibilities?’ 

‘He always thought so.’ 

They had come to a kiosk, and the smell of bitter coffee clung to the damp air. They ordered, and the barista’s gaze rested gently on Mr. Giles as they sat on a nearby bench. 

‘Tell me about Tommy’s dreams.’ 

Mr. Giles nodded several times as if grappling with the size of them. ‘He was always chasing horizons.’  

As he spoke of Tommy’s travels — India, the US, Alice Springs — Yuki’s graphite pencil danced. Broad shoulders, curious eyes, a backpack. A triathlon, a waterfall, a Border Collie. A life in fast motion. 

‘He began as a terrible baseball player. But through real hard work he became captain. They lost the grand final, yet I’d never been prouder.’ 

‘What made you proud?’  

‘How he’d led the players.’ 

Yuki bent her pencil, testing it, contemplating whether to probe or continue drawing. ‘But why?’ 

Mr. Giles fixed his eyes to the path, exhaled. ‘You know, deep down, I liked it more when he lost.’ He glanced at Yuki. ‘Because that’s when I saw him handle difficulty, and he did it with real grace.’ He leant back. ‘Sounds backwards now. But those moments — that’s when I thought he’d be okay in this harsh world. I thought I’d done something right.’ 

As Mr. Giles’s words flowed; so did Yuki’s pencil. Page after page filled with sketches as she immersed herself in Tommy’s interests: his love for sports, his dream of becoming the local mayor. Her hand moved freely, finding an understanding of Tommy as a writer finds a voice for their protagonist. 

‘Ms. Goldstein’, Mr. Giles interrupted, pointing to the sketch pad. ‘Tommy had straight hair.’  

Yuki’s pencil hovered. Had she drawn her brother’s black curls on Tommy’s head? She fumbled for her eraser, took away the wayward lines and gripped the pencil tighter. 

‘Everything ok?’ he asked.  

‘Completely fine, Mr. Giles.’ Her voice softened. ‘It’s just Tommy’s life — so much in such little time. And his last year? He would have been 17, right?’ 

Mr. Giles’ jaw tightened as he looked into his cooling coffee. She felt the force of his deflection, driven between them like a wedge of something left unsaid. Her clients often painted their lost loved ones in golden hues. When her brother died, her family had done the same, sanctifying him, sanding his rough edges. 

‘Mr. Giles’, she said gently, ‘I understand the desire to focus on the positives. On being respectful. But by doing so, we risk erasing the things that made Tommy who he was.’ 

He looked up, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘It’s not just about being respectful.’ His voice was strained but measured. ‘Remembering the good times — it’s how I’ll keep the best parts of him alive. It’s how we find comfort. And isn’t that what Tommy deserves now?’ 

Yuki nodded. ‘It’s natural to think that way.’ Memories of evenings in the university library writing her doctorate rolled through her. ‘I’ve come to argue that we eulogise the departed knowing that when we die, we’ll be eulogised too. It’s a kind of—collective bargain.’ 

Mr. Giles looked at her blankly. ‘A deal?’  

‘A deal with the deceased. But it comes at great cost. It erases complexities and, in doing so, erases the very essence of who they were. And, by extension, who we are too.’ 

Mr. Giles did not want to hear this. He squeezed his eyes shut, carving crevices of wrinkles around the sockets. ‘But this isn’t about me. I—I struggled in so many ways.’ 

Yuki reached out but stopped short of touching his arm. She hadn’t touched anyone in years. ‘This is your chance to do right by him. To acknowledge as much of the struggle as we possibly can. His and yours.’ 

He nodded, but too slowly to mean he was convinced.  

‘Mr. Giles, what was the last thing Tommy said to you?’ 

He opened his eyes and stared into the thick silence between them. When he finally spoke, Yuki had to lean in.  

‘He said, “Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the son you wanted.”’ Mr. Giles put his face in his hands. ‘But he had it all wrong. He was everything I wanted.’ 

A small, hard lump formed in Yuki’s throat as she felt the echo of her own feelings for her brother in Mr. Giles. ‘Did you tell him?’ she asked in a lower voice. 

Mr. Giles looked at his lap, shaking his head. ‘When he was little, he’d wake at night, scared. I’d tell him they were just shadows. But he’d only sleep if I stayed. I miss when I could make things better, just by being there.’ 

A need to care for this man bloomed in Yuki. Not in pity, but in a shared understanding of loss. She sensed that while Mr. Giles could continue, she wanted to stop. To keep her professional boundaries in place, to keep her brother at bay. And so, she closed her book and said, ‘I’ve enough to begin.’ 

‘I’m sorry. I’m not helping.’ 

‘But you are.’ 

‘This was a mistake.’ 

‘Please. How about we meet again in two days?’ 

He seemed to sway a little on his feet before nodding. 

‘At my studio?’ 

Mr. Giles agreed with a quiet ‘thank you’ and walked back out the gate. Yuki turned to Tommy’s sketched face — youthful, hopeful yet shadowed. She knew the weight of this garment would be heavier than most. 

*

That evening, the rising full moon seemed to carve a perfect square of light on the studio floor. From Yuki’s worktable, it looked like a portal that she might drop down any moment, to reappear in another time. She began fingering a bolt of tightly woven wool and recalled the pigs she’d buried during her doctorate that decomposed much faster than their Merino jackets. Her brother’s favourite jumpers were made of wool. She reached instead for a spool of cotton — less durable but comforting and sensitive. Like Tommy. With cold metal scissors, she snipped the silence, bringing Tommy’s life into sharper focus and keeping her brother’s blurry.  

*

Mr. Giles arrived in the same clothes, smelling of nicotine and neglect. He shuffled toward the worktable as Yuki let him in. ‘Let me show you what I’ve begun’, she said. 

He reached out and touched the shorts. ‘Beautiful.’ Then, glancing at the Singer and materials scattered about, ‘You’ve been a seamstress for a long time?’ 

‘The way you spoke of Tommy—it helped.’  

Mr. Giles caressed the blue socks. ‘These are warm.’ His voice caught. ‘You know, he wore his blue “lucky socks” to his first baseball match. Everyone else wore white.’ A smile pulled at his lips. ‘They won that day, and he wore those socks to every match. Even when there were more holes than sock.’ 

He continued rubbing the socks. ‘Could we put a hole or two in them?’ He looked away as if ashamed. ‘I don’t want to ruin it though.’ 

‘Of course. I will.’  

Mr. Giles stared at the cotton shirt, his eyes following the outlines of academic shields and clues to overseas adventures. He picked it up and slowly raised it to his nose. As he inhaled, Yuki felt her throat tighten, dry. 

‘But there’s a blank spot.’ He referred to the untouched space by the heart.  

‘His final year, Mr Giles. I know little of it.’  

Mr. Giles paused. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I do, too.’ 

‘I know it’s painful’, she said slowly, ‘but—would you feel comfortable sharing what happened at the end?’ 

Mr. Giles placed the shirt on the table, walked to the window, looking towards the button grass shuddering in the wind. He was quiet for a long moment then said, ‘It’s still … difficult. But I’m grateful for what you’re doing, Ms. Goldstein. It helps, in a way I can’t explain.’ He turned back to face her, rubbed his stubbly chin with his thumb and index finger. ‘What drew you to this kind of work?’ 

Yuki studied Mr. Giles, his shoulders still tight. ‘There’s something meditative about sewing. The rhythm of the needle, the feel of fabric between my fingers.’ Her eyes drifted to the Singer. ‘It’s a craft that allows for creativity yet demands focus. And the quiet moments, being alone, I like them very much.’  

She paused, watching Mr. Giles for signs of easing, thawing. When none came, she added, ‘And there’s a certain … self-reliance to it. Each stitch is a decision, an act of creation. And there’s also something comforting about creating clothes’, — she picked up Tommy’s shirt — ‘for those who can no longer do it themselves.’ 

Yuki normally kept her explanations brief, but she found herself wanting to share more with Mr. Giles. She wanted to trust him. 

‘My father was British, my mother Japanese’, she began, pausing to swallow. Their faces became surprisingly clear in her mind. ‘Both were Buddhists. In Buddhism, there’s a transition stage for the dead — they call it bardo. At university studying textiles, I started thinking about clothes for people who were here but not here. If you follow me? Embryos. The dead.’ 

An unfamiliar smile, wry and awkward, pulled at the corners of her lips. ‘My classmates thought I was rather morbid.’ 

‘And I couldn’t shake this question: what are they wearing in bardo? It sounds trivial, perhaps? But think about it. We carefully clothe ourselves for every significant transition in life — birth, coming of age, marriage. Why not death? Why not—after?’ 

Mr. Giles leaned in, his brow furrowed. 

‘So, I started making these garments. Not just for the body left behind but for the journey ahead. A final outfit woven from memories, loves, regrets — everything that made them who they were.’ 

Thoughts of her brother now rushed at her. She’d always wondered what her brother had looked like in his coffin. Was it something familiar to hold onto in that unfamiliar state? A reminder of who he was, who had loved him, as he transitioned to—whatever came next. 

Her eyes lifted from Mr. Giles towards the manhole in the kitchen ceiling and back down. 

‘But I also realised that the process supported those who grieve, such as yourself, to find solace too. It can help others avoid the lingering pain of an incomplete goodbye.’ 

‘You know a lot about grief, Ms. Goldstein.’ He faced her squarely now. 

‘I always thought that it was love that made us human, Mr. Giles. Our defining, uniting trait. But then I realised I was wrong. It wasn’t love; it was grief. And it’s a beautiful thing. A most human thing. And we should cherish it, revere it, like we do love.’ 

Mr. Giles gave a long, slow nod. 

‘The garment process is a way to engage with our grief. The garments are a bridge between what was and what remains.’ 

Mr. Giles stopped nodding, his eyes lingering on Yuki’s hands. For a moment, it seemed he might speak, but instead, he let out a great sigh. Sensing the toll their conversation was taking on both of them, Yuki suggested lunch on the patio. She spread hummus on frost-bitten bread and offered it to Mr. Giles with fresh coffee. They ate quietly, as if fortifying themselves. 

*

Yuki put the dirty dishes in the sink where, she knew, they’d remain for days. As she sat back down, she turned to Mr. Giles. ‘And how about Mrs. Giles?’ 

He closed his eyes. ‘We loved him, but we lost her a few years back. Honestly, I wasn’t the best husband.’ 

‘I’m sure you did your best’, Yuki said, thinking about her own experience with love. Henry, her first and only. She had walked to Henry’s house — to his bedroom — when she left her brother at cricket practice.  

Mr. Giles continued, his voice soft. ‘His mother deserved better.’ 

‘How so?’ 

‘She wanted to open a small bookshop. Loved literature, always dreamed of having her own store in town. “Sara’s Stories”. I said no.’ 

Yuki watched him turn his face toward the fridge. 

‘I was constantly afraid she’d outgrow me. That she’d realise she could do better. So, I used our financial stability as an excuse. I kept her dreams small, manageable.’  

Yuki’s fingers traced the edge of her sketchbook, her eyes steady on Mr. Giles. After a moment, she said, ‘Tell me about the good times.’ 

As Mr. Giles relaxed and reminisced, Yuki’s pencil swept across her pad. Faces, personalities and experiences emerged in graphite, her imagination filling gaps where his memories faltered. Time slipped away. When Yuki finally paused to survey her work, her eyes fell on the final sketch. Her breath caught. Staring back at her were a pair of narrow, beady eyes — her mother’s. 

She was taken back to that grey afternoon in Tokyo, two days after her brother had died. Sitting at the kitchen table with her parents. Between them, a pot of tea and tissues.  

‘We think it’s best if you don’t come to the funeral’, her mother said, her voice taut and fragile. 

‘What? Why not?’ Yuki replied; tears stained her school uniform. 

Her father cleared his throat; it echoed around the room. ‘Our emotions are dangerous, love. And we want you to focus on school. You’re doing so well. Your exams are next week. University next year.’ 

‘I need to say goodbye.’  

‘Honey, we’re sad, just like you’, said her father. ‘But what’s done is done. It’s important to focus on your future.’ 

The memory faded, as she found herself back in her kitchen, where Mr. Giles was coughing. Yuki handed him napkins. He wiped his face and the coffee-stained spittle on the table. When he resumed speaking, his voice was steadier, anecdotes flowing, but she still felt the pain of her parents’ decision boiling in her chest, wanting to pour out of her pencil.  

Yuki tried keeping pace with Mr. Giles, damming her memories, but they seeped through. She was caught between two urges: to surrender and let them pull her under or to resist. Her hand moved with purpose, but her mind teetered between escape and immersion, every line she drew a contradiction.  

Strands of hair strayed across her cheeks as she dragged a pencil across the page, thickening lines, smudging them with her fingertips, creating subtle gradients, like gentle folds of fabric, and scratching with a fingernail the texture of her brother’s woollen jumper, the shadows, deeper and much darker than ever. 

Her breath caught when Mr. Giles stood, his chair grating across the wooden floor, and offered her a fistful of napkins. ‘Ms. Goldstein. Why are you crying?’  

*

The following afternoon, Mr. Giles arrived, handing Yuki a box of antihistamines. She’d blamed yesterday’s tears on allergies before rushing him out and had since tried pushing the incident to the back of her mind. There was just one day until the funeral, she reminded herself, as they sat around her worktable. 

‘His garment is in good condition’, Yuki said. ‘But it’s not finished. Do you want to complete it, Mr. Giles?’ 

He bit his lower lip hard, as if he wanted to puncture it. ‘How it ended?’ 

She nodded. 

Mr. Giles shuffled in his seat, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and spoke towards the floor. ‘Tommy had his demons. Wasn’t himself. For two years, he …’ He trailed off, cheeks puffed with unspoken words. He exhaled, his breath disturbing a napkin that fluttered to the floor. ‘I think he just couldn’t bear the pain anymore.’  

‘I’m very sorry, Mr. Giles.’ 

‘Me too. I missed the signs. Should’ve done more. Now I’ll never understand.’ 

‘It wasn’t your fault’, Yuki said, knowing better even as she spoke. She’d heard the same about her brother, each reassurance widening the void his death had dug inside her. That emptiness growled now. 

‘It damn well was. He asked for help. I said, “Okay, let’s talk.” Then I sat there. Silent. For two hours.’ He paused, swallowing. ‘Just—listening. He poured out everything — fears, dreams, his darkest thoughts. And I realised—’ His voice cracked. ‘I didn’t know my son at all.’ 

Yuki gripped the chipped edge of the worktable, her thumb pressed against a sharp splinter. His pain hit her with an almost physical force. As he clenched his fists, she forced herself to nod, urging him to continue.  

‘You know the worst part, Ms. Goldstein? For a moment, I thought I’d done good. Thought I’d helped.’  

He stood, his gaze fixed on the half-finished shirt, finger hovering over the blank space, trembling. ‘How’, he whispered, ‘do you put that here?’ 

Yuki found herself looking toward the front door, wondering if she could apologise and turn Mr. Giles away. I can’t, she nearly said. But she sat up straighter and fixed a rigid expression on him, hoping that he had not sensed her vulnerability. 

Mr. Giles began pacing around, breathing heavily. ‘I don’t want this in the garment. Not at all.’ 

Yuki breathed deeply. ‘In my experience’, Yuki said, her voice steady but quiet, ‘acknowledging everything can heal. And protect.’ 

‘No.’ He shook his head.  

‘Mr. Giles.’ 

‘My son will be remembered for his life, not his death.’ He advanced toward her now, looming over her, sweat beading on his brow, her backrest creaking. He jabbed the garment. ‘Leave it as it is.’ 

She stood up, squared her shoulders, meeting his suspicious stare. ‘But remember what I told you, Mr. Giles; I create not just for the dead but for the living. Hiding parts of Tommy’s story won’t erase them; it will only leave gaps that will haunt you.’  

Mr. Giles pursed his lips.  

‘They will haunt you’, Yuki repeated, locking his gaze. ‘For the rest of your days.’ 

Two minutes passed. An age. Then, finally, his face crumpled, and tears streamed down his cheeks. Sobs shook his body, steady and relentless. ‘I’m a terrible, terrible father.’ 

Yuki hesitated, her body tensing against a long-suppressed urge. Slowly, she edged forward. Her arms, stiff from years of disconnection, rose. She paused, trembling, then embraced Mr. Giles. As he shuddered in her arms, she felt his tears cooling on her neck and wished she could feel them there a little longer. Finally, she released him, stepping backwards, and wiped her own cheeks. 

‘Mr. Giles, your struggle is part of Tommy’s story too. We can honour both — his life and the love that’s carried you through this pain. Would you like to include that?’ 

He fumbled for a worn napkin, wiping his eyes and nose. When he raised his eyes to her, he set his jaw and interlaced his hands on the top of his head, breathing deeply through his nose. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. Then, with conviction, dropping his hands to his sides, ‘Yes, please. Do it.’ 

*

Yuki stood at the cemetery, leaning into the horizontal rain driven by a westerly wind. Six others attended the funeral. ‘All family’, Mr. Giles had said when asking her to perform a role. ‘They’d prefer not to.’ He nodded towards them. ‘Would you mind? You … this … it’s meant a lot.’ 

Now, Mr. Giles stood over the coffin suspended above the dark hole by a silver winch. 

As the pastor spoke, Mr. Giles bowed his head toward Tommy, who lay on his back in the wooden casket. Both their faces were wet with rain, but only the father’s was wet with tears. The wind tugged at Mr. Giles’ loose shirt, urging him to move on, while his jeans remained stubbornly steady, soaked to a twilight blue. When the regional train to the city sent its whistle across the valley, Mr. Giles did not flinch. 

‘We’ll now lower the coffin’, the pastor said, nodding to Yuki.  

She approached and leaned over Tommy. Her work wrapped comfortably around him. She gave in to the urge to replace Tommy’s face with her brother’s. Would this have been how it felt to have looked at her brother in his coffin? She dropped to her knees, sinking into the wet earth, gripping the edge of the casket to steady herself.  

Her mind drifted to the last day she saw him. He had waited after cricket practice as his friends were collected by their parents, brothers and sisters. When she didn’t arrive, he walked home alone. At the final corner, a truck hit him. And killed him. 

Now, as Yuki’s eyes traced Tommy’s garment, she realised she couldn’t picture her brother wearing it. It wasn’t his story. 

The shorts, cotton, with Tommy’s hometown landmarks embroidered on the pockets. The royal blue socks, soft, warm and full of holes. Academic awards climbed like jasmine to a university crest on the left sleeve. The right pointed to far-off adventures: the Taj Mahal, Uluru’s silhouette. A candle flame flickered on his collar beside ‘Sara’s Stories’ in warm golden stitching. As rain lashed her face, Yuki’s eyes fell to Tommy’s heart.  

A compass. Instead of the traditional N for north, Yuki had stitched a question mark, the needle pointing towards it with uncertain, fraying threads. ‘He was always restless, my boy’, Mr. Giles had said. ‘I never understood what he was searching for.’ Now, as Yuki watched the needle, appearing to waver in the wind, she realised Mr. Giles had been referring to himself as much as Tommy. 

Yuki closed the casket and began winding the winch. The earth embraced Tommy as Yuki looked up at Mr. Giles, appearing unflustered by the elements and the moment. Yuki wondered if she too could find such grace in the face of loss. 

*

In the months following the funeral, Mr Giles visited Yuki often. Then one day, with a smile she’d not seen, he told her he was ‘seeing someone’ and moving to the city. As his visits dwindled, her recollections of her brother intensified. She knew time alone never healed all wounds, but part of her had always hoped she’d be the exception. Each morning, her thoughts drifted on the steam of her coffee towards the manhole, wondering if the sketches, now forty years old, remained intact.  

One summer afternoon, as a ute rumbled by, trailing the scent of cut hay, she noticed two boys playing cricket in the nearby field. The ball sailed over the road into her yard. The boys looked at her expectantly, still, as if afraid. Her back tightened as she bent to retrieve it. Cowhide leather, bloody crimson.  

The boy who had hit it was now standing in front of her, offering a cautious palm. But Yuki could only see her brother. She released the ball, now slightly damp, into her brother’s waiting hand. He sprinted away as if he’d not liked what he’d seen.  

Yuki turned slowly, making for her kitchen where she dragged a stepladder under the manhole. On tiptoes, the ladder wobbling, she pulled a box towards her. Dust poured from the dark cavity, gripped in beams of afternoon sun. She descended with the box tucked under one arm and sat at her worktable. 

*

Throughout the following long and dry summer days, the boys from across the road often hit cricket balls into Yuki’s yard, perhaps emboldened or intrigued by their first visit. And, on those occasions when they approached her studio, pushing small ears against the flaky paint of the weatherboard, they would have queried the hum inside. Had they ever asked Yuki what it was, she would have proudly shown them the Singer breathing life into her brother’s garment. 

2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize Shortlist