The "Clothes of Hope" Trilogy. Story One: The Dress Suit

The bell above the door chimed dryly, not melodically, as if someone had coughed in an empty room.

The Tailor did not raise his head. He was stitching a buttonhole on a cuff — a task requiring a steady hand and complete detachment from the outside world. The client stood at the threshold, shifting from foot to foot, breathing heavily, wheezing in the air saturated with the smell of hot iron and wool dust.

“Are you open?” asked a voice, brittle and creaky, like old parquet flooring.

The Tailor set aside his needle, removed his glasses, and only then looked at the newcomer. Standing before him was a decrepit old man, a ruin. Gray parchment skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones; his eyes held the murky moisture of fear and pain. He held onto the doorframe as if without this support he would crumble into pieces at any moment.

“That depends on why you have come,” the Tailor replied. His voice was even, devoid of professional pleasantries.

“I need a suit,” the old man took a step forward. “A three-piece. The very best.” 

“For a funeral?” the Tailor clarified as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t mean to offend the visitor. He simply knew the price of things and time. Usually, in such a condition, a suit is ordered precisely for that purpose.

The old man straightened up, and a shadow of former pride flickered in the movement. 

“No. For life. My grandson’s wedding is in six months. I promised to be there. I must... I must look dignified. The doctors say...” he stumbled, waving a bony hand. “To hell with what they say. I want Alex to remember me not as a wreck, but as a grandfather. The one who taught him to swim. Do you understand?”

The Tailor nodded slowly, walked out from behind the counter, and circled the old man. His gaze was tenacious, unpleasant. He looked not at the figure, but through it. He saw how death had already built a nest in this man’s lungs, how thin the thread binding spirit to body had become.

“I do not sew with ordinary fabric,” the Tailor said, returning to the table. “English wool will not help here. You need a different material.”

“I have money,” the old man said hurriedly, patting his chest pocket. “I’ve been saving all my life.”

The Tailor grimaced as if from a toothache. “Put away your paper scraps. They aren’t even worth the thread I will use. The material I speak of is Hope. Pure, concentrated hope that you will live to see the wedding, that you will dance at it, laugh, and drink wine.”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Yes, that is exactly what I need! Sew it for me.”

“You do not understand,” the Tailor cut him off coldly. “Such fabric holds its shape better than any corset: once it cools, it no longer remembers what it should be. “What does that mean?” the old man became alert. “It means the shrinkage process is irreversible. The suit keeps its form on your warmth and your desire to live. If it settles, it will forget the fit and turn into a rag. If you want to look like a king at your grandson’s wedding, cherish the warmth.”

The old man laughed hoarsely and with relief. He thought the master was simply driving up the price with the capriciousness of the material. “Is that all? Afraid I’ll ruin the cut before the time comes? I won’t let a speck of dust settle on it! Sew it, master!”

---

The fittings were strange. The old man arrived gray and hunched, barely dragging his feet. But the moment he slipped his arms into the vest sleeves, the moment the trousers settled on his hips, he changed. The fabric was remarkable: in the light, it appeared noble dark blue, but in the shadows, it shimmered with something warm, alive, golden.

It didn’t provide warmth itself. On the contrary, the fabric seemed to greedily absorb the heat of his sick body—and from this, it became taut as steel, holding his muscles tighter than his own ligaments could.

On the day the order was ready, the old man walked out of the atelier with the springy step of a forty-year-old. He forgot his cane in the corner of the fitting room. The Tailor did not call after him. He knew the old man would no longer need the cane.

Six months flew by like a single day. The doctors threw up their hands: “A miracle, spontaneous remission.” The old man didn’t listen to them. He lived, organized the wedding, argued with the host, chose the restaurant. And he never once took off the suit. He told everyone he had taken some foolish vow, or joked that he was afraid such beauty would be stolen if he left it on a chair. His family got used to it. The main thing was that Grandpa was healthy and cheerful.

The wedding thundered for two days. The old man was magnificent. The blue suit fit impeccably, not a single crease, not a single wrinkle. He gave a toast that made even the waiters tear up. He danced the waltz with the bride, spinning her so lightly that the guests gave a standing ovation. 

Camera flashes, shouts of “Kiss!”, music, laughter—all this was the life he had hoped for. The very life the Tailor had sewn for him.

---

Evening settled on the city softly and quietly. The old man returned to his apartment. Music still rang in his ears, but his body suddenly felt heavy as lead. The euphoria of the celebration was receding, leaving room for silence. The apartment was stuffy.

“That’s it,” he thought, looking at himself in the hallway mirror. From the glass, a stately, ruddy man in a magnificent suit looked back. “I did it. Alex is happy. I didn’t let my grandson down.”

He wanted to loosen the knot of his tie. His neck felt constricted. “You mustn’t. You gave your word.” “Oh, come on,” the old man whispered to his reflection. “It’s all over. The party is done. I just need to rest. I’m tired.”

He undid the tie. It became easier to breathe. “It’s all nonsense,” he thought, unbuttoning the top button of the jacket. “Just good fabric. Just autosuggestion.” He took off the jacket and neatly hung it on a hanger. His back was pricked with cold, but he paid no attention.

His fingers habitually reached for the buttons of the vest. The vest fit tightly, as if grafted to his skin. First button. Second. Third. The old man pulled the vest off his shoulders.

In that same instant, his legs gave way. The sturdy stitches of hope that held the suit together came undone—and all the time the suit had been holding back from the outside crashed down on his body at once, with all its accumulated weight, in a single second.

There was no scream, no pain. Only a dry rustle. The shirt, deprived of the vest’s support, suddenly collapsed, becoming flat.

His wife, woken by the strange sound, came out into the hallway a minute later. “Honey?” she called out.

There was no one in the hallway. On the hanger hung an impeccable dark blue jacket. The trousers and snow-white shirt had settled neatly to the floor, but the person was no longer in them. Where a living man had stood just a moment ago, now, amidst the folds of fabric, a gray mound of dry ash lay mixed with a couple of blackened bones that would have crumbled from the slightest draft.

The suit had done its job. It had held its owner exactly as long as he had hoped to live. But the life inside had ended six months ago.