David Bridges
io9 is excited to showcase a compelling fiction piece from Lightspeed Magazine. Each month, we proudly feature a captivating story from the latest issue of Lightspeed. This month, we present “It Might Be He Returns” by Fatima Taqvi. We hope you enjoy the read!
Unraveling the Mystery of “It Might Be He Returns”
Written by Fatima Taqvi
Fawad, the central character in this poignant narrative, is perpetually plagued by hunger, while the relentless sun casts a harsh glare upon him. He harbors a dream to save the world, a thought that occupies his mind as he sits across from the tailor’s shop, observing the clothes dance gracefully in the breeze from the air conditioner. He envisions a brighter future where he would provide the utmost for his parents, enroll in any school of his choosing, and secure an education that could transform him into the extraordinary person he believes he has the potential to become.
In Master Jee’s shop, a mirror stands at an angle, framed by neatly stitched garments that surround it. The mirror bears a few smudges, revealing a thin crack that runs across its surface. As the frenetic traffic of Karachi rushes by in a blur, the mirror reflects these fleeting images in jarring bursts. Perhaps it would have served a different purpose had it faced a different direction, but then, the ensuing events may never have unfolded as they did.
The first moment Fawad glimpsed the mirror’s hidden meanings, he was seated cross-legged against the wall across from the tailor’s shop, etching a map of his thoughts into the dirt. Deep in contemplation, he pondered his next steps. Should he invest time searching for a new pair of sandals as one threatened to break? The gnawing pangs of hunger intensified, causing the world around him to expand and contract, shimmering at the periphery, revealing ungraspable truths that only he could comprehend.
Across the street, the mirror reflected the sun’s rays so brilliantly that when Fawad paused, his eyes were drawn upward, captivated by the bright visage shining through the glass behind the crouched figure of the tailor, who was intently focused on his sewing machine.
Fawad was just in time to witness the tailor’s reflection detach from the flat surface of the mirror and rise upright.
He nearly lost his balance while seated, feeling faint. The tailor’s reflection lingered for an extended moment, then with resignation, it shrugged and resumed its seated position, mirroring Master Jee’s actions as both tailors unfurled a length of pristine white cotton.
The next encounter was marked by a sense of suffocation, and during the last occurrence, he nearly lost control of his bladder. The mirror’s reflection began tilting its head, shielding its eyes with one hand as it peered out from the shop window, craning over its counterpart’s shoulder, its face obscured by a flash of light while one arm extended, pointing directly at him.
Understandably, Fawad was initially terrified. But as strange as these events seemed, he reasoned that the mirror was part of a vast array of things that had no relevance to him. He was outside, amidst the bustling streets, while it was contained within.
After his father’s passing, all the safe spaces he once knew closed off to him. Acquaintances began to cluster too closely together, occupying every inch and leaving him with none, staring at him in disbelief, as if he thought they would yield even a fraction of space. Upon arriving at school, the Vice Principal seized him by the ear, dragging him back outside the school gates. She questioned whether any payment was forthcoming for his fees, asserting that if not, it was time for him to step up and fend for himself. A man. And schools were for children.
The school gates were bolted shut behind him, secured both sideways and downwards, maybe even to the earth’s core, where his father now resided with all the deceased, sharing stories. The gates shook momentarily, as if filled with fury, then stood still, silent, like a monument.
The last sanctuary left was home, yet that too succumbed soon after the funeral, overwhelmed by the greedy grip of leering, red-eyed uncles, and blocked by the sharp tongues of aunts who snatched away his old cell phone, school uniform, and cherished collection of books and toys for their own children.
Now, all that remains to him is his name. Just his name, his constant hunger, and the lingering thought each night that if no one else was willing to save the world, he would have loved to do so if only he could.
Fawad.
The profound yearning in a voice reaches him first. It embodies a need, colliding with the contrasting emptiness and fullness within him, as his stupor and aches converge with a sensation so intense that it creates a pull, a suction.
And then—
Ignore it. Yes, it’s loud, drowning out everything else, but is it as loud as the call of styrofoam boxes filled with hot, greasy food currently being distributed beneath the bridge? Kind faces await him in that vast outside world, just a step away from the blaring traffic. If he could feed himself, keep going for a bit longer, and evade the gangs eager to recruit children by any means, he might one day become a gardener like his father. His father had been successful and well-loved, tending to sprawling homes filled with glittering possessions and feeding people. He earned enough to send Fawad to school. Yet, recalling all this proved to be a mistake, as it reminded him of his father’s gentle embrace, drawing him close and saying, “You must not become a gardener like me. We will find you scholarships. This is Karachi! Schools, colleges, and tuition centers abound on every street. You will learn, grow, and change the world.”
Now he feels utterly undone, left vulnerable to the designs of the mirror that now calls to him without words.
Not by his name. It ensnares him now, this formless sound. The slow vibration of a mother’s breathing, her chest rising and falling beneath him. Until it ceases altogether, and nothing remains but the piercing tone of something entirely different.
Without realizing it, he finds himself standing at the door of Master Jee’s shop, his hand twitching against the glass. The mirror reaches into his mind, twisting something fundamental that connects his heart to his eyes. His soul shudders in response to the summoning.
Inside the shop, enveloped in the cold silence of the air conditioning, the mirror appears taller than he remembered. He feels giddy, as if peering down from an incredible height. What if he gazes into the mirror and finds his reflection entirely wrong?
But it isn’t. It reflects exactly who he is. Though the set of his reflection’s jaw bears an expression that suggests it already knows what is about to transpire.
Master Jee casts a glance in his direction, his lips parting and brow furrowing, but a flash from the mirror causes Master Jee’s face to relax, and he turns away, humming an old tune from days when expenses weren’t so overwhelming, imagining a more comfortable future.
Fawad delicately runs his fingers along the mirror’s surface. He traces the outlines of the grime, yet cannot feel the ridges and bumps as he ought to. The cloud lies beneath the smooth surface of the mirror, inherent to its very essence.
As if executing a well-rehearsed plan, like a joyful dancer at a mehndi, he lifts a foot, twists his body, and steps right through the mirror.
Once, on one of Fawad’s birthdays, his father had gifted him a cake reminiscent of those they had seen displayed in bakeries. A creamy white cake adorned with triangular pieces of sweet pineapple, usually reserved for the children of fathers unburdened by the weight of everyday expenses. The sun had worked its magic, rendering the cream cake soft. As the mirror now melts around his form, Fawad recalls how the knife had glided through his birthday cake as though it had awaited the blade all its life. He is a child once more, celebrating his birthday, with his father smiling, laughing, and jumping for joy as he eagerly awaits a slice, before he tumbles through the mirror to the other side.
Darkness envelops him. It is neither night nor a result of a power outage, for he can see perfectly well. Here, light is unnecessary—everything emanates its own light, glowing against the void.
He turns to find clothes lining the sides of the mirror on this side too. They bulge as if filled with invisible bodies. The ends of the kameezes sway, shoulders slump, and necklines droop, all of which instills a sense of terror within him, prompting him to look away.
The Other Tailor’s shop presents itself as a glowing facade, stranded in the surrounding darkness. Walls exist, yet they do not meet at the top. There is no roof. A door frame stands devoid of a glass door. The shop emanates a cold rumble, but there is no air conditioning.
I must leave, he thinks. What am I doing? Djinn, churail, demons—all the stories he has heard rush through his mind. Who else would inhabit this land devoid of sunlight?
A sound emanates from the darkness behind him, and he glimpses a large paper horse trotting away down an unseen path, its tattered reins hanging loosely. The horse’s eyes are obscured by decades-old newspapers, yellowed with age. Its inky mane shakes as it moves, revealing an ad for a nightclub over one eye and an announcement from a mosque over the other.
As it vanishes, Fawad realizes he has no idea what else might be lurking just beyond. Perhaps the next creature he encounters will differ from a horse.
Yet as he turns to depart, the clothes appear altered. Why has he not tried one on yet, his mind questions. These garments are so enticing, so exquisite, and surely kept ready for him by some benevolent hand. Observe this sherwani, for instance. He would appear as a prince. His Vice Principal would commend him as a role model for other students. His uncles would once again welcome him into their home. He could distribute food beneath bridges instead of being the one who receives.
He lifts his own gray kameez over his shoulders.
“Stop that.”
The voice echoes from beyond, and he now realizes it belongs to another human, the Other Tailor.
However, it is not truly him. He dons the same attire: a spotless brown kameez, the same agate ring on his index finger, and identical Peshawari chappals on his feet.
But his ring is on his left hand, not the right. He is hunched over, absorbed in some task held in his hands, and the cap he wears casts a shadow over his face. He is bent slightly away, obscuring his face from view. It becomes evident that he is not human at all. His stillness radiates an absence.
“Get out of here,” he commands, brusque, like all beings who inhabit confined spaces. “You do not belong.”
“I was called,” Fawad retorts, indignation overcoming fear as he peers closer. A glint of something catches his eye on the Other Tailor’s face, difficult to discern.
A cat yowls from a corner, startling him. It darts across Fawad’s vision, formed entirely from crumpled Urdu magazines, torn apart and reassembled into a feline shape, with an excerpt from a forgotten short story visible across its back.
“You really didn’t call me?” he stirs uneasily, aware that he was summoned. Yet, now that he is here, he questions whether any of it truly occurred.
“Those meant to be here are present,” the Other Tailor replies. “But you must depart if you are not interested in unraveling these threads. There is much to accomplish, and I work under a deadline. I only caution you against those,” he gestures without looking up toward the garments, “as they have already been filled. That is why they appear so fine.”
Now Fawad notices a sleeve inching closer to him. It halts the moment he sees it.
The Other Tailor settles onto a stool, engrossed in his work. A tangled mass of threads lies before him. He mutters as he picks up one item and then another. A pair of scissors tumbles from his lap.
Before I depart, I will hand him this one item, Fawad thinks. It is virtuous to be helpful, as my father always said. So he offers it, and as he does, a splash of light occurs as the Other Tailor glances up for the briefest moment.
“I will not compensate you,” he states immediately. “Do not expect payment for that action.”
“I was merely passing it to you.”
“We have no agreement. Your efforts warrant no recompense.”
“I only meant—”
“Contracts are paramount here. Promises hold weight. You cannot agree to something and later renege, as they do in your world.”
Fawad processes this information.
“So you have ventured there then? In my world? I did see you, you know.”
“I might have stretched my back,” the Other Tailor muses thoughtfully. “I toil so hard. I might have glanced into the other world, where cities remain silent and nothing displays its meaning openly. So, are we in agreement?”
“Agreed to what?”
“To our contract. You will assist me. Gather my items. In return, I will compensate you.”
Something compels him to look at the type of outfit the Other Tailor is crafting.
The thread appears sticky, evoking images of corpses with disturbing remnants hanging from their mouths. Filaments protrude, ragged and colorless. It produces no sound, no rustling—a silence akin to the moment just before he drifts into sleep, unable to recall his father’s voice.
“What is this? Who is it intended for?”
“You may deliver it to the client yourself,” the Other Tailor’s voice is soft.
His voice is so tender, reminiscent of a spoiled birthday cake that has been discounted at a bakery, sold to a man eager to create a memorable moment for his son, even as he suffers from fever, his ribs aching from repeated vomiting, the spoiled cream cake surging back up his throat.
“Do you attend school?”
Fawad’s mouth twists in response.
“No matter,” the Other Tailor continues. “We have schools here. Even across Karachi, we have schools lining every street, and some of our graduates have gone on to change the world. That could be your payment.”
All thoughts of styrofoam boxes vanish. The plastic bags filled with biryani and the kind faces in the vast outside world fade away. One thing shines for him, overshadowing all other desires. There are schools here. And the Other Tailor guarantees him a place.
Should he have investigated first? Considered what sort of places they were? Despite everything, he is his father’s son, and at the mere promise of learning, he leaps before he looks.
• • •
The first item Fawad was tasked with finding was relatively simple, but returning to the mirror with it imparted wisdom about the nature of this other world.
Rubbish heaps in Karachi are as ubiquitous as clouds in a picture-perfect sky, and Fawad knows them well. Each has its own ecosystem, and by studying one, you come to understand them all. He quickly locates what he seeks—scratch cards, lying crumpled and used, faded by the sun, drenched in liquid waste. He gathers them up in handfuls.
They are filthy, exhausted. He does not comprehend their significance.
But as he steps through the mirror to the other side, the gray rectangles ignite into hopeful firefly lights, transforming into shimmering silver chiffon, illuminated by sighs and yearnings. The numbers twist, becoming black curlicues, embroidered floral designs, mimicking wedding flowers that were never plucked. In another life, Fawad’s father would send him to purchase these scratch cards, and they would input them into cell phones for credit to connect with distant people.
The silver chiffon glistens, and for a fleeting moment, Fawad envisions the flare of a skirt adorned with this ethereal fabric.
The Other Tailor exhales and takes the fabric. He pierces it with his needle, and now he has only one word for Fawad.
“More.”
A cricket ball morphs into a floating emerald and ochre silk. A bridal bracelet glimmering with jasmine buds transforms into thread the color of moonlight and romance. A garland of roses turns into crimson patches. A broken tile from the city’s largest shrine becomes a string of ribboned squares. He sits, picks and unpicks the threads that tangle at his feet, then heads out for more.
Discarded syringes stained with blood metamorphose into white muslin—swaddling cloths imbued with the scent of milk.
“They always do that,” the Other Tailor comments. So, he ventures out to cleanse them. A swamp, a shrine, a river—he settles by the river, hoping the amused faces lurking beneath the mire of the swamp do not come any closer to investigate him.
A watchman’s lost sandal transforms into smooth leather. A schoolgirl’s uniform dupatta maintains its starched form, which he must unravel, the crisp white swiftly dissolving into cobalt ink threads. A khwaja sira at the traffic lights relinquishes a snippet from the patterned inner fabric of her handbag with a bemused expression.
“Are you eating?” she inquires. “You look kangra sa.”
Fawad realizes he hasn’t eaten in a while and returns to the spot beneath the bridge where styrofoam boxes of meals and occasional fruit juice cartons are distributed. He finds he isn’t as hungry anymore. He can’t tell if it’s magic or simply anticipation.
“More.”
Somewhere, an Imam prepares to lead the Friday prayer at the smallest mosque in Karachi, but a cat has fallen asleep on the only kameez he possesses. He cannot afford to be late, nor can he go to the mosque in just his prayer cap and lanky vest. Yet the cat lies peacefully on his right sleeve, her bones protruding, mirroring his own undernourished frame. He cannot bear to wake her, especially since she appears so at ease. He has heard her lamenting recently, and he suspects she has lost her kittens. Her body remains heavy with milk; she ought to be left undisturbed.
But if he skips the mosque, they will select someone else for the khutba, and that person will speak of fire and shame instead of advocating for the well-being of others. The Imam abruptly cuts off the sleeve with scissors, pulls his torn kameez over his head, and rushes past where Fawad hides in the shadows.
In the other world, the sleeve transforms into gold.
“More.”
Broken arcade lights turn into sequins. Withered almonds in wedding favors metamorphose into cold rubies.
A teenager halts to wipe sweat from his brow. His motorcycle wobbles, strikes a stone, and a metal piece breaks off the frame. He doesn’t slow down; deliveries must remain punctual, so he swerves past a thin boy who picks up the broken metal.
The metal piece transforms into silver.
Fawad journeys to Clifton. At the seaside, he steps through rubbish to collect bluebottles in an empty ice-cream tub. He wonders, with irritation, what the mirror image of these shores resembles in the other world and whether they are free from the stench of pollution. The bluebottles sting him, leaving angry red welts on his skin. He hurls them in frustration at the Other Tailor, creating a cloud of sand that mid-air morphs into a nude granular fabric adorned with aquamarine crystal work.
“It’s chaotic,” Fawad says, feeling spiteful. “It won’t come together.”
But he refrains from speaking excessively anymore. His mind feels troubled. Something is amiss in this arrangement. To calm his thoughts, he wanders around to see the schools. The buildings on the horizon shift along with him. They refuse to remain still long enough for him to reach them. He believes he can hear children’s voices and a bell ringing.
The worst moment was the gunny bag.
“Can I not simply retrieve one from a bag of flour?” he pleaded. But no. This one. From this specific location. Behind this many trees, in an abandoned area. The streetlights here are nonfunctional; they possess more sense than that. There are spaces where people reside and deserve light, and areas that absorb violence, the haunts of the cruel.
The gunny bag feels heavy. He pulls and pleads with the burlap, but it insists on slipping from his grip, each time falling with a disquieting thud that Fawad would sell his soul to unhear. He cannot see clearly, yet he knows maroon stains mark it, and he understands where they originate. Flies and other insects are aware too, scrambling as he continues to disrupt their feast.
Eventually, he manages to empty the contents of the gunny bag. He delivers the figure from the bag with trembling hands, folds the bag, and pauses.
The Other Tailor provides no further instructions, and Fawad cannot abandon the mutilated form as it is. He begins to dig a hole, but the ground remains unyielding, having witnessed too much to be soft. Fawad collapses, overtaken by heaving sobs. His hand brushes against the soil, and he discovers grass.
He places the blades of grass at the figure’s mutilated feet. Something glimmers in the shadows, having also fallen out of the gunny bag along with an empty wallet. He picks it up—a broken blade.
Why does he pocket it? He cannot articulate. And then he is fleeing as one vehicle after another arrives, carrying a new gunny bag, its contents still alive. He disregards the sounds of crying and pleading, the laughter of men, and races away, bursting through the door of Master Jee Number One Tailor, stepping back through the mirror. He doesn’t even blink when the gunny bag transforms into a white, shroud-colored sheet.
The blade rests in his pocket. It is the least magical of all items, retaining its form as he traverses the mirror. He somehow knew it would.
He tosses the sheet to the Other Tailor.
“Unpick it,” the Other Tailor instructs without turning.
Fawad remains motionless. The clothes hanging in the Other Tailor’s shop observe him, awaiting his understanding.
Perhaps it is pity that moves the Other Tailor. Or impatience.
“Look,” he offers.
Fawad glances behind the counter.
The chaotic patchwork has vanished. It is no longer colorless; now it is a single outfit, swaying skirts. It is no longer silent, but rustles a melody as the Other Tailor manipulates it, the chorus sung in more languages than Fawad knows. It appears warm now, full of life. It is a beautiful sight.
When worn, this bedsheet-sized fabric will be gathered into bunches around the woman’s waist, cascading gracefully.
“A gharara,” he exclaims.
The Other Tailor nods. It is impossible to discern his thoughts. Fawad yearns to ask him to reveal his face, but he wonders if the Other Tailor is too shy or too filled with shame. Such a request feels too intimate, too presumptuous. Who is he to ask? His anger now feels foolish and knobby. Yet, he suspects that to dissipate it would mean rejecting something he cannot fully comprehend.
The Other Tailor observes him.
“My mother wore one,” Fawad states, seeking to fill the silence. “A gharara. At her wedding.”
“And her mother wore one at her wedding too. But before her, each of them wore a gharara every single day. And when they passed, they donned shrouds, which we also create here. Fawad,” the Other Tailor says, “Are you certain?”
“Certain of what?”
Yet the Other Tailor’s gaze is now fixed behind Fawad.
“She is coming.”
“When?”
“Any day now. It is essential that she not be displeased in any way.”
And he swiftly resumes his work, integrating the new fabric into the whole.
“Be certain,” he murmurs. “Be certain you do not regret it.”
The sewing machine clatters, so perhaps Fawad imagined it.
• • •
The client emerges from the sea—or from the swamp, the river, the distant buildings on the horizon, or all of these at once. Worst of all, Fawad recognizes her, for he has known her his entire life. He knows all about her.
Karachi possesses charcoal eyes, shaking the scent of grilled kebabs from her hair every morning and rinsing it with seawater. The hem of her faded skirt is lined with bluebottles. Her feet are bare, save for anklets of bougainvillea. Her soles are perpetually sandy.
Fawad attempts to speak, but his throat betrays him, constricting his voice. He contemplates the children: Karachi’s arms swing them around, immersing them in sights, sounds, and adrenaline, causing their laughter to ignite the peach fires in the sunset sky. Then, at dusk, she walks away, leaving them behind, oblivious to their tears and starving cries as the night gently envelops them. She inspects the produce at market stalls, perhaps pausing to gaze at a secondhand book stall or to stare longingly at the locked gates of an art exhibition, wishing she could step inside. Oh, she exclaims, did you think I’d forgotten the children? The stray cats, the scab-ridden dogs, the overburdened donkeys? The abandoned baby girls left on rubbish heaps? The monkeys and flamingoes escaping their captors, every fiber of their being yearning for habitats long erased? Look here, she beckons, revealing them all sleeping soundly inside the knots of her dupatta slung around her neck.
The whimpering of the strays and the tearful voices of the children fade as Karachi grows weary, crawling inside the rotting carcass of a horse left to decay outside a leather factory. She places a trembling finger in her mouth, then sweeps it across the gunny bags strewn throughout the city, inscribing something in an ancient language spoken on her shores long before humanity existed. Nobody realizes that the men in gunny bags have been transformed back into children, sound asleep, wrapped within the folds of her dupatta, held close in worlds above her bosom.
“But you don’t,” Fawad asserts. “You don’t do any of that.”
“No,” Karachi replies. “But it would be delightful if I did, wouldn’t it?”
She is here for herself today, seeking something that will be just right. Her thoughts scatter like rickshaws, buses, and tankers zipping around, yet she also bears a malaise, perhaps something autoimmune, that brings the traffic to a screeching halt for hours.
Ah, yes. She recalls now. A complete suit, if he possesses it. A gharara suit.
“Of course. Have I not been laboring on it all this time?” the Other Tailor responds, his words courteous, though his voice betrays a hint of nervous anger.
“And who is this?” she inquires.
“An apprentice. A helper,” the Other Tailor explains, producing an outfit that Fawad can scarcely recognize, though he has seen it every day of his work.
“I adore it,” she exclaims, clasping her hands. “Oh, this is exquisite. Better than the last one from so many years ago.”
Her cheeks dimple as her kajal-lined eyes dance, tracing the gleaming embroidery cascading along the skirts.
The Other Tailor responds, a note of relief in his voice. “Did I not inform you? And do you even listen?”
There remains one final step known to every tailor that must be completed for the gharara. It is always stitched inside out. But he must await her command. This is part of their ritual.
“Now,” she instructs.
The Other Tailor reaches into the garment, seizing the inner cloth, and pulls. The cloth flips. The gharara’s folds ripple, their stitches protruding. The Other Tailor draws all the folds to fall on the inside. Right side out, Fawad muses. That is how it is supposed to be.
The moment the Other Tailor withdraws his hand, the world on the right side of the mirror erupts in chaos.
The shops turn inside out. The rooms flip, revealing their insides. The malls, the houses, the offices, all invert, causing everyone to tumble out, like coins spilling from hastily shaken pockets.
And everyone outside is pulled inside. Gates burst open, flower vendors and children selling balloons are swept in. Bodies surge from gunny bags. Let us not dwell on whose turn it is now to fill them.
A pause, a tremor, and just like that, life resumes. Not a single person recalls. This has always been the case, they assert, as the ministers gather the trash into bags and the homeless drive their shiny cars to their newly acquired mansions.
The fates have been swapped, and no one is the wiser.
Karachi touches the fabric.
“How soft,” she whispers. “How full of life.” The Other Tailor leans back, satisfied.
“No.”
“What’s that now?”
Karachi steps closer, and he realizes he has spoken. She tilts his face upward. You might assume that is mehndi on her palms, but Fawad now sees it is dried blood.
“Nothing is without consequence,” Fawad continues, his voice quaking. “Will you not pay the price? For the garment?”
“I have never compensated for it yet. Have I?” she appeals to the Other Tailor. “Do not be absurd. What would that even look like?”
“And yet you always take. You took our cricket balls, our shrouds, our scratch cards, and all the things that dwell by the seaside. You seized the schoolgirl’s dupatta without which she cannot enter school, the khwaja sira’s handbag where she keeps her identification. You took the maulana’s sleeve, the resting places of corpses. And you adorned yourself with their beauty. I ask you, what do you give?”
“Consider that I switch the fates,” Karachi retorts. “In a sense, everyone is equally unfortunate. It is always someone’s turn, given a generation or two. Isn’t that quite fair of me?”
“Not sufficient. Countless people are ground down into suffering. Each family has a tale of pain, of hurt. And your dress has taken from representatives of all the city’s inhabitants.”
“Very well,” she concedes softly. “What shall I grant you? A throne? A crown?”
“Bestow your people with streetlights that do not flicker. Roads that do not crumble. Electricity that remains steadfast. Factories that never ignite. Libraries accessible to all. Water that does not flood.”
“You demand much,” she replies calmly. “None of this lies within my power.”
“If you do not know how to deliver—”
“I did not claim I do not know how to deliver. It is not my purpose.”
“Come now,” the Other Tailor interjects, addressing Fawad. “We did not make this agreement. The contract stipulated an education.”
“You assured me of that. But what has she promised the individuals who own the materials? They could have utilized the silver, the gold, the gemstones. And what has she pledged in return to me?”
“The sea,” she murmurs. She is no longer a person in Fawad’s eyes; she appears ancient, possessing fins, an elongated neck, and sharp teeth. She bites her own hide, and light streams forth, illuminating the shore. The first light on the swamp where the city of lights would emerge. “The sea is for you, for me, for all of us. One day, when the sun shines fiercely enough, we shall drown together.”
Fawad flinches. It is already unfolding. Unnatural monsoons have been wreaking havoc across Karachi. They rage on, ceaselessly through the night. New faces are surfacing beneath the bridges. The deceased welcome ever-growing numbers into their circle beneath the ground. Shadowy figures of powerful individuals far away have disrupted the land’s balance through negligence and malice.
“And yes,” she caresses the fabric once more. “I will grant you all that.”
Fawad stares, aghast.
“You said—”
“Oh, I won’t accomplish a single bit of it. You shall.”
“How?”
“Is it my concern to know? When you master real magic, you can utilize it for all sorts of purposes, I would imagine. And I require an attendant. So remain here. Learn. There are ample schools if you wish to change the world. You will uncover the secrets of bending life itself to fit what it should be, even when the powerful oppose you. Even when they consume your city to its core. And once you’ve learned it all, let’s see what you decide to do with it. Perhaps, one day, you can become the city.”
“It is not that straightforward,” the Other Tailor states.
“Of course, it isn’t. First, you will return.” She pivots Fawad away from her by the shoulders. “Until the full moon graces your sky once more. Experience life with the fates reversed. Will you return? That is the critical part. Once they experience privilege, few ever desire change.”
“Has this occurred before? Have there been—”
“School tomorrow! Your driver will be waiting. Your lunch will be packed. Your parents may still be gone, but your home is yours, you possess money, and people who assist you. When you retire for the night, you might think about doing something for those sorrowful faces tapping on your car window for money. Yet you will awaken the next day to a soft bed, the air conditioning perfectly adjusted, and so you won’t. Have I not witnessed this countless times?”
She laughs, and Fawad can hear the rain pounding on the right side of the mirror. Perhaps rain falls in Master Jee’s shop on the opposite side. She laughs again, yet the Other Tailor raises his face to Fawad, and Fawad sees himself reflected in the glass. He senses the Other Tailor attempting to communicate something.
“You doubt I will return? I will come back,” Fawad insists, his voice trembling with uncertainty. “At the next full moon.”
“It might be he returns,” the Other Tailor remarks, slipping something sharp to Fawad.
Karachi shrugs and turns away.
When Fawad steps back out of the mirror into a newly remade world devoid of memory, he is overwhelmed by a wave of panic. Silence reigns on the other side. The rain has ceased. There is a power outage, leaving the shop in darkness, and no one has started the generator.
He exits Master Jee’s shop and spots another boy sitting cross-legged opposite the shop. His heart sinks at the sight of him—but oh, the relief when he realizes it need never be him again.
He observes a car pull up, and his memories rearrange themselves, allowing him to recognize it as his own. He retreats, back into the shop.
It will unmake him, he fears. The amnesia. He can sense the allure of believing it wasn’t merely luck that saved him. It was himself, the trap his new life has laid for him whispers. It is his cleverness that has lifted him off the streets. He deserves this life.
Something pricks his hand.
He looks down at what the Other Tailor had given him.
It is the broken blade he retrieved along with the gunny bag. He must have dropped this somewhere, and now the Other Tailor has returned it to him.
So it did happen, he reassures himself as he approaches the door. All of it occurred. He mustn’t forget. He places it carefully in his pocket.
One hand on the door handle, poised to step out, he feels a surge of fear. There is so much to accomplish. Who will assist him?
He turns back to gaze at the mirror.
All he sees is his reflection.
Discover More About the Author
Fatima Taqvi is an acclaimed short story writer specializing in horror and fantasy, originally from Karachi, Pakistan, and currently residing in London. Her works have appeared in esteemed publications such as Strange Horizons, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Nightmare Magazine, The Dark, and many others. You can connect with her through her website at fatimataqvi.com.
Be sure to explore Lightspeed Magazine for more exceptional science fiction and fantasy stories. This tale originally appeared in the August 2025 issue, which also features short fiction by David Anaxagoras, Osahon Ize-Iyamu, Adam-Troy Castro, Christopher Rowe, Sarah Langan, Naomi Kanakia, V.M. Ayala, and more. You can either wait for this month’s contents to be serialized online or purchase the entire issue in a convenient ebook format for just $4.99, or subscribe to the ebook edition here.
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