Chapter 6: Martha The Seamstress and Lisa
"Martha?" I called out, my knuckles rapping gently against the weathered wooden door of her cottage.
When no response came, I reached for the brass doorknob, its surface green with age and wear. My fingers barely managed to grasp it properly—a reminder of my physical limitations in this young body—but I managed to turn it with a soft click. The door swung inward with a prolonged creak that seemed to speak of years of neglect and the relentless passage of time.
The hinges desperately needed oil, and if I was being honest, the entire door needed replacing. The wood had warped over the years, leaving gaps that would let in cold drafts during winter months. Martha really should have addressed these maintenance issues long ago, but then again, the same could be said for most of the buildings in our village.
As I stepped across the threshold, Rumia close behind me, I couldn’t help but compare Martha’s home to our own. Our house was certainly worn and showed its age in countless small ways—loose floorboards that creaked ominously underfoot, walls that had settled unevenly over time, and a roof that would likely need attention before the next heavy rain season. But we had the excuse of limited resources. Isabella, my mother, spent every copper she earned on herbs and medical supplies for the villagers, often treating people who couldn’t afford to pay her back. Her generosity left little room in our budget for home improvements.
But Martha’s situation puzzled me. As the village’s only skilled seamstress, she commanded good prices for her work. Every few months, traveling merchants would arrive with coin purses specifically set aside for purchasing her intricate tapestries and finely crafted garments. Wealthy visitors from other settlements occasionally made special trips to commission her work, having heard of her reputation through word of mouth. By all accounts, she should have been one of the more prosperous residents of our village.
Then again, perhaps I was overestimating the economics of our small community. My understanding of commerce and currency in this world remained frustratingly incomplete. The monetary system seemed to operate on principles different from what I remembered from my previous life, and the relative value of goods and services wasn’t always intuitive. Maybe Martha’s income wasn’t as substantial as I had assumed, or perhaps she had expenses I wasn’t aware of.
The interior of her cottage was noticeably smaller than our family home, but the construction appeared more solid. The wooden beams showed signs of skilled craftsmanship, and the floor, while creaking under my weight, felt sturdy beneath my feet.
"Martha, it’s me," I called out but got no answers. As we moved deeper into the cottage, passing through a narrow hallway lined with shelves of fabric and sewing supplies, I began to feel something weird.
When we reached the main living area, I widened my eyes. Martha sat slumped in her old wooden rocking chair, her head tilted back at an unnatural angle. Her weathered hands still clutched a half-finished piece of embroidery, the needle frozen mid-stitch as if time itself had stopped. For one terrible moment, I thought we had arrived too late.
"Martha!" I exclaimed, rushing forward with Rumia right behind me.
I reached out to check her pulse, pressing my small fingers against the papery skin of her neck. The heartbeat I found was weak and irregular, but it was there. I felt the slow rise and fall of her chest—she was breathing, though each breath seemed labored and shallow.
Her skin felt unnaturally warm to the touch, and I could see a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead despite the coolness of the morning. These were signs I recognized from watching my mother treat various ailments over the years. Fever, fatigue, and now this concerning weakness—Martha was clearly unwell.