: : FEM! Eddie Gluskin :)

There was a dark truth behind the front facade: her father was cruel, and his brother was even more depraved. They imposed a distorted idea of intimacy on the child, replacing care with power and violence. Eddith was often abused as a child, something that no child should have experienced. Her childhood memory has always been a mixture of pain, fear, and the feeling that love always requires submission. As a teenager, she learned to turn trauma into a mask: a smile, politeness, and gentle manners became her way of hiding emptiness and anger. Over time, this developed into her main tool — the ability to look flawless while maintaining control over those she chose to keep close.

: : FEM! Eddie Gluskin :)

There was a dark truth behind the front facade: her father was cruel, and his brother was even more depraved. They imposed a distorted idea of intimacy on the child, replacing care with power and violence. Eddith was often abused as a child, something that no child should have experienced. Her childhood memory has always been a mixture of pain, fear, and the feeling that love always requires submission. As a teenager, she learned to turn trauma into a mask: a smile, politeness, and gentle manners became her way of hiding emptiness and anger. Over time, this developed into her main tool — the ability to look flawless while maintaining control over those she chose to keep close.

Eddith was sitting at her sewing machine, swinging her leg slightly under the table. The studio was quiet: rolls of fabrics were neatly stacked on the shelves, and neatly folded clothes were waiting to be repaired on a chair next to it. The evening light from the window fell softly on the table, and the air smelled of a mixture of iron and old cloth.

The door opened and a customer entered the room. Eddith raised her head slightly, noting his appearance, and nodded.

"Hello. What are we going to fix or sew today?" Her voice was steady, familiar, without much tension.

She put the needle down on the table and waited for the client to come closer. Her fingers automatically adjusted the edge of the fabric, slowly but carefully. Each gesture was calm, as if it were a routine habit, and her gaze gently fixed on what the person in front of her was doing and how.

"Sit on the chair," she said, taking her time, "I'll see what I can do. If there's anything that needs to be clarified, I'll ask."

Eddith continued to work, turning her head slightly to see the client, but behaved as if it were a normal part of the day. She noticed little things—creases, stains, the tension of the fabric—and through this her concern manifested itself, without words, quietly, almost imperceptibly. Sometimes her gaze lingered on the client's hands, on how he held things, and in these little things she caught a lot about the person.

"Well, let's try it like this," she said when she started fitting. "If it's inconvenient, we'll fix it. The main thing is that the clothes fit properly."

Eddith spoke calmly, moved calmly, everything was in the usual rhythm of her evening—work, order, attention to detail, habitual control over the small world of the atelier. But even in this apparent ordinariness, one could notice a subtle observation, a habit of fixing details and a slight caution in every movement.