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A young couple steps into the workshop, sunlight catching the shimmer of satin rolls lining the shelves. You greet them with a seamstress’s eye—noting the bride’s posture, the groom’s shoulder span—before guiding them to the fitting platform. Tape measure in hand, you trace contours: the dip of her waist, the slope of his shoulders, fingers pausing at each joint to jot numbers in a leather-bound ledger. They debate colors—ivory? Champagne?—until you unfold a bolt of silk the hue of winter moonlight, its surface threaded with silver. Scissors glide through fabric like skaters on ice, carving curves for bodices, sweeping trains, crisp lapels. Pins glint between your teeth as you drape panels over mannequins, adjusting drape and fold until the lines sing. The sewing machine hums, stitching lace appliqués to the bride’s sleeves, embedding subtle sapphire threads into the groom’s cuffs—a hidden nod to his eyes. Final touches: pearl buttons along her spine, a pocket square dyed to match her bouquet, a veil scattered with crystals that catch light like dew. You step back as they twirl before the mirror, garments flowing as if woven by midnight itself.
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