The Last Thread

I knew it was his shirt the moment I saw it, as if a lost child had finally found its mother after a long separation. In Jaffa, Palestine, where the scent of oranges filled the air and the streets hummed with memories of simpler times, I could always tell—always know—when orange season had arrived. After years of inherited embroidery practice, I could sense it was him, just by the touch of the fabric. I could tell if it had been made by hand.

My fingers remember every stitch, as if the threads grow from my skin, guiding the needle through the fabric.

Yes, it’s Khalid, indeed. The day he asked me to make him the most beautiful embroidered shirt, made by my hands, so he could remember me wherever he went.

If I could weave my love into fabric, I would stitch my heartstrings into his shirt, binding us forever. If it hadn’t been for the war, if that visit hadn’t come without warning, I could be with him now... Or I could be his wife.

My fiancé was everything to me, but the war took everything. It left behind dark days, with no sun in sight, homes reduced to rubble, and bodies scattered, like forgotten blankets left to gather dust. The smell of fresh metallic rust, iron, and flesh clung to the walls of my village, where no one remained.

Khalid, too, left. Perhaps they took him. They took my soul, my everything. They took my future husband.

Just one week ago, Khalid came to my embroidery shop in our village, preparing for our upcoming wedding, when I could finally be his wife, and he could be my husband.

In the midst of this destruction, I remember the last time Khalid came to my shop—just a week ago, to help me prepare for our wedding. Together, we worked on decorating my dress, adding the most beautiful stitching, filled with orange shapes that reminded me of the trees my parents lived for.

Before they passed away, my parents were farmers, tending to the orange trees with love and care. The land they worked still held the legacy of their hands. The orange trees stood tall, their heavy fruit bending the branches toward the earth, as if they knew where they belonged.

The orange trees surrounded my embroidery shop, where I first learned the art of embroidery from my grandmother. I was just a little girl, dreaming of the day I would wear my wedding dress and run beneath those trees. Grandma taught me that, just as the trees grow through all seasons—through thick and thin—our stitches should reflect the same strength and beauty. The orange-shaped threads that adorned my dress symbolized a perfect marriage, one that endures through time. That is all I wanted.

And that’s what Khalid wanted— for me to wear the most beautiful dress, one sparkling with orange, as if I were the tree itself. He came into my shop, his eyes bright with anticipation. "I can’t wait to see you wear the dress," he said, his voice full of longing. He leaned his shoulder against mine, as if he were missing something he had never lost.

"You must leave now, so I can finish the dress," I answered, a small smile playing across my face. My eyes never left my fingers as they moved, stitching with excitement, each thread tying me to the dream we shared.

And that was the last time I saw him.

I still hear his voice sometimes, as if he’s standing behind me, watching my hands work. And here I am, sitting on the rubble, accumulated and lost. Holding my dress in my lap, searching for where the united stitches were left, my fingers move as if an artist mastering his piano notes. “You always stitch too perfectly,” he says, his warm breath against my ear. I turn to my side, expecting to see him smiling at me, his dreamy eyes filled with the stories we have yet to live. But there is nothing—only emptiness.

He is not gone. I know he will come back to me— to his love. He promised nothing would ever separate us.

How am I supposed to keep living without Khalid?

He is the light in my eyes, the only way I can find my way through these terrifying, lonely days.

He is waiting for me to finish embroidering my wedding dress. The dress he always dreamed of seeing me in. Perhaps if I keep stitching, if I let my fingers keep working, he will come back soon.

Shouts echo around me. Soldiers yell at people to move— anywhere but here. Smoke thickens the air, burning my throat, clinging to my skin. The scent of charred wood and something else— something metallic, something raw—fills my lungs. The ground beneath me is no longer the floor of my embroidery shop. It is rough, cold, covered in dust and scattered debris.

“Salwa,” Amal says gently, her voice trembling, careful as though she’s afraid to shatter the fragile hope I still hold. “You have to stop all of this.”

I barely lift my head, my fingers still pulling the needle through the dress. "Stop what, Amal?" I sigh, the dust-filled air heavy in my lungs.

She hesitates, crossing her shaking fingers over her lips. "You have to take care of yourself..." Her voice shivers. "We also might—"

"He’s coming back. You’ll see," I stop her, my voice firm, desperate. "And we will get married next week."

Tears pool in my eyes, lingering on the edge, unsure whether to fall or stay trapped in the illusion I refuse to let go of. My hands tremble, but I keep stitching, weaving orange threads into the chest of my dress— our dress. I can’t wait to show him the final touches.

Amal exhales, shaking her head, but says nothing more.

I find his shirt again, folded neatly beside my things. It’s stained with loss and disappointment, still wet, not yet dried. I press it to my face, searching for a breath of his scent. But it’s gone now— only dust remains, carrying the bitter scent of betrayal.

My heart shrinks. Why him? And for a moment, I wonder if I’ve been waiting for something that will never return. The shirt is the only thing left of him— of my past, my present, and my future. Now it feels like a ghost of the past— its fabric no longer warm with memories, but cold with the present. I refuse to thrive.

I look at my hands, sand slipping through my fingers. Those guilty fingers, the ones that buried my love under the rubble, can no longer lie. But still, the orange flowers find their place on my dress— threads of resilience, knitted through the fabric of my heart, as if they know where they belong.