It took her the first two years to figure out how to press out the flowers without drying them out too much, then another two years to figure out how to knit each flower so tightly together that it could be worn like a shirt. The last two were spent married, but still in silence. She lived more for her sewing than her husband, but it was okay, because she was beautiful.
She sews her shirts on a deadline, and even then she’s not fast enough to prevent scars, and they scatter like birds on a rising wind. But scars only mark the living, so they’re okay too, and hope can be wrung out of the worst of situations.