Threads in the Fog

The train rumbled steadily through the countryside, its rhythm like a heartbeat stitched in iron. Outside, frost clung to the grass and trees like a whisper of snow, not brave enough to fall. Rolling hills and fields slid past the fogged window, turning slowly gold as the morning crept on. The whole landscape seemed to hold its breath, still and quiet, as if the world outside was waiting for something to happen.

Inside their compartment—one of the older ones with a sliding door and two plush benches facing each other—Iris and Jamie sat with their knees almost touching, the dress box resting safely in the luggage rack above. The cabin swayed gently with the train's motion, lanterns swaying overhead and casting soft amber light over worn velvet seats. The room was cozy, if a bit faded, with little details that hinted at better days—a brass wall hook with one arm missing, a chipped glass sconce above the window, and upholstery worn thin in the corners.

Iris had her sketchbook open on her lap, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She wasn't drawing, though. Not yet. She watched the clouds drift by, thumb tapping against the paper as her mind wandered. Her boots rested against the bench's edge, legs tucked to the side, eyes following the slow-motion blur of farmland, trees, and distant smoke trails.

Jamie sat across from her, arms crossed loosely, one boot bouncing in a slow, steady rhythm. His satchel lay between them, half-zipped, a corner of a folder poking out. He watched her for a moment, the way she tilted her head slightly as she stared out the window and her fingers twitched like she was stitching something only she could see.

The silence was companionable—until it wasn't.

Jamie shifted. Sat up straighter. Cleared his throat.

"I, uh... need to tell you something."

Iris blinked and turned to look at him. "That's a concerning tone."

"I might've... taken something."

Her eyes narrowed. "Like a sandwich? Or...?"

"From the crime scene."

Iris sat up fully now, sketchbook forgotten. "Jamie."

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a sealed evidence bag. Inside, slightly crumpled but unmistakable, was the scrap of dark navy fabric with gold thread—the same one they'd pried from the corpse's hand.

Her eyes widened. "Is that—?"

He nodded. "The one from his hand. I kept it after the captain ordered all the physical evidence destroyed."

Iris's mouth fell open slightly. "Wait—destroyed? All of it?"

"Yeah. The moment they found the insignia. He said it was above our pay grade and that any reports, samples, and everything needed to go. Chain of command bullshit."

She stared at the bag, her heart beating faster. The thread glinted faintly even through the plastic. "And they just… let it happen?"

"Most of them didn't care. They were just following orders. But I couldn't. So I pocketed this before the rest got burned."

Her voice dropped. "They really tried to erase him."

Jamie nodded. "But this scrap? It still talks. It's capital-made—we knew that from the insignia. But the pattern in the weave… I think it might be more than decorative. A mark, maybe. Something specific. Something someone didn't want to be left behind."

She reached out and took the bag carefully.

"I don't recognize the exact pattern," she murmured, studying the fabric through the plastic, "but I've seen work like this before. Formal commissions. Guild-level embroidery. This isn't mass-made—this was tailored. Deliberately."

"Someone paid a lot to put that in his hand," Jamie said. "Or to try and make sure it wasn't recognized."

"Maybe both."

Jamie leaned back with a low whistle. "Fancy fabric and a murder mystery. We're practically halfway to becoming a soap opera."

"I always wanted to be the sarcastic best friend with great hair," Iris said, holding the bag up to the light. "Instead, I get to be the anxious dressmaker with blood evidence in her lap."

"Don't worry," Jamie said. "You're still the fan favorite."

"I'm also probably an accomplice now."

He grinned. "Welcome to the club. We have tea and regrets."

"I brought cookies," she deadpanned. "For bribes and moral support."

He chuckled. "Perfect. I knew I kept you around for a reason."

"I thought it was because I fixed your buttons."

"Second reason."

Outside, the train curved into a long bend. Sunlight spilled across the compartment floor in broad golden stripes. The rhythm of the wheels grew louder for a moment—then settled.

They didn't speak for a long time.

But between them sat the truth.

And for now, they were the only ones who knew it.

A low whistle sounded from another part of the train, followed by the soft groan of brakes easing. The train wasn't stopping—just slowing, maybe for a curve or a crossing—but it was enough to pull them both from their thoughts.

Iris glanced down at the evidence bag again. "So what's the plan? We walk into the capital with a stolen piece of evidence and hope someone smiles at us?"

"Roughly," Jamie said. "I also plan to lean dramatically against expensive furniture and mutter something cryptic like, 'the blood never washes out.'"

"I think you've been watching too many midnight dramas."

"And you haven't watched enough."

Iris rolled her eyes but smiled. She tucked the fabric back into the satchel carefully, smoothing the zipper over like it was something alive. "You really think this will help?"

"I think it's the only thing we've got that wasn't burned to ash."

"Well," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "let's ensure we don't end up the same way."

Jamie gave her a look—half smirk, half solemn. "Deal."

There was a pause before Iris spoke again, her voice quieter. "When we get there… do you have anyone to go to? Someone you trust?"

Jamie hesitated, then shook his head. "Not really. Most people I worked with last time I was there were transferred or silenced. But I know where to ask. And I know who to avoid."

"Then we play it smart." Iris tapped her sketchbook. "We start with the fabric. I can trace the weave. Only a handful of guilds in the capital are capable of this kind of work. If I can narrow it down…"

"You'll have leads."

"And you can use those to backtrack who might've commissioned it. Maybe even match it to someone who's been at events recently."

Jamie nodded slowly, his thoughts already racing ahead. "And if this really was a council guard, like we think—someone high up didn't just want him gone. They wanted the whole trail buried. That means whoever stitched this… they might know more than they realize."

"Then we find them."

He looked at her with a mix of pride and concern. "You sure you're ready for that?"

"No," Iris said, grinning. "But I'm ready to look good while doing it."

Jamie laughed softly. "That's the spirit."

"You were right," she muttered, her eyes still fixed out the window. "About the carriage. The letter. All of it. It's weird. Like, way beyond weird."

Jamie looked up from his notes, not bothering to hide his smirk. "I'm sorry, can you say that one more time? I don't think the train caught it."

Iris rolled her eyes. "Don't make me regret saying it."

He grinned. "I would never."

She leaned back against the window, arms crossed. "But seriously. Who the hell rides in a damn carriage these days? Especially out here. People take trains. Bikes. Smuggler carts, for all I care. They don't roll up in a polished burgundy fairytale wagon with horses that looked like they've been kissed by royalty."

Jamie leaned back, arms crossed. "It was clean. Too clean. Like it hadn't even touched Greystone's roads."

"And she stepped out like she owned the place," Iris continued. "Like it wasn't weird that a noblewoman just happened to be in a war-torn mud-town boutique, looking for a dress I hadn't even meant to sell."

Jamie drummed his fingers on the windowsill. "You think it wasn't a coincidence?"

"I think," Iris said slowly, "she was expecting me. And I hate that you called it before I figured out something was off."

Jamie leaned forward, voice low. "You said that dress had just been put up in the window, right?"

"Two days. Maybe three. I hadn't told anyone it was for sale. It didn't even have a price tag. I only put it up because the mannequin was bare, and I liked the colors."

"And then this woman shows up—rich, poised, unbothered—and not only does she compliment the design like a gallery critic, but she also hands you a sealed letter? One that basically says, 'Deliver this dress to me at the gala. Discretion appreciated.'"

"Like she knew I'd be there. Like she knew I'd say yes."

Jamie ran a hand through his hair. "Either she's a very confident shopper… or this was planned."

"But why?" Iris sat again, her brow furrowed. "Why pick me? Why pick that dress?"

"Maybe she needed an excuse to get you to the capital," Jamie said slowly. "You. Specifically."

Iris shook her head. "I'm nobody. I sew patches and hem sleeves. I haven't even finished a full collection in three years."

"Except you're not nobody," Jamie countered. "You're smart. Observant. And if she's somehow connected to the man we pulled from the river…"

Iris froze. "You think she killed him?"

"I think she knows who did."

Silence settled over them again, heavier this time.

"She acted too casual," Iris said finally. "Like she'd done it before. Like she wasn't afraid that someone might follow her. And the way she spoke…"

Jamie nodded. "She didn't offer help. She offered a request. And money. A lot of money. Enough to keep someone quiet if they weren't curious."

"But we're curious."

"We're a terrible pair," he said dryly. "Too broke to ignore it and too stubborn to walk away."

Iris laughed once—short, bitter. "She picked the wrong shop for discretion."

Jamie's gaze drifted toward the compartment door. "Or maybe she picked the right one. One that looks small enough to overlook."

Outside, the sky began to pale toward noon, the fog thinning over the hills. The train rolled on.

They sat in silence again, but they weren't just thinking this time.

Jamie stared at the scenery, eyes growing heavy.

In the dream, he was twelve again. The hallway of his old house stretched too long and was too quiet. With his school bag still slung over one shoulder, he pushed open the front door and stepped inside. The air was stale. Still.

"Mom?" he called. No answer. Not even an echo.

The kitchen was empty. Plates gone. Drawers bare. No note.

Panic crawled up his spine as he moved to the bedroom—his sister's closet emptied, drawers open like mouths gasping for explanation. The bed was made too neatly, too cold.

He ran to the garage.

Gone. The car. The suitcases. The people.

Only his reflection remained in the glass of the door. Small. Confused. Left behind.

He turned. Shouted. "You said you'd never leave!"

But no one answered. There was no one left to hear him.

"Jamie."

His eyes snapped open.

Iris was leaning over him, her brow furrowed with concern. "Jamie, hey—you're okay. Just a dream."

He sat up quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand.

"I'm fine," he muttered, though his voice cracked halfway through. "Just… memories."

Iris didn't push. She sat back slowly, giving him space but not letting her concern fade.

"I know," she said softly. "It's not fair what they did. But you're not alone now."

Jamie gave a weak smile. "Thanks. I forget sometimes."

She nudged his foot gently with hers. "That's why I'm here. To bug you until you remember—you're not alone. Not as a kid, and definitely not now."

Jamie let out a faint chuckle, hoarse but honest. "You're very persistent."

Iris winced. "Sorry—I didn't mean to drag that up. It just popped into my head. I wasn't thinking."

He shook his head gently. "It's okay. You asked a fair question."

They sat in silence again, but they weren't just thinking this time.

Jamie stared at the scenery, eyes growing heavy as the train rocked gently beneath them.