Threads of Truth

A Transgender Coming of Age Romance

Chapter 1: Reluctant Threads

By Ariel Montine Strickland

Can Matthew's love of vintage dresses and a temporary job for Grandmother Rose
give them the courage to take the plunge and live as their true self, Kiki?

Chapter 1: Reluctant Threads

The morning light filtered through the dusty windows of Grandmother Rose's vintage dress shop, casting long shadows across the carefully arranged displays of bygone elegance. Mathew stood at the threshold, clutching the brass key Rose had pressed into their palm the night before, feeling the weight of reluctant responsibility settle on their shoulders like an ill-fitting coat.

"Just until Laura gets back from her honeymoon," Rose had said, her weathered hands gentle but insistent. "The shop needs someone who understands the stories these dresses tell."

Mathew pushed open the door, the familiar chime announcing their arrival to an audience of silent mannequins draped in decades of dreams. The Baker neighborhood hummed with its usual morning energy outside—coffee shops opening, dog walkers navigating the tree-lined streets, the distant rumble of traffic heading toward downtown Denver. But inside Rose's sanctuary, time moved differently, measured not in minutes but in the careful preservation of memories sewn into silk and satin.

The shop smelled of lavender sachets and old wood polish, with an underlying hint of the vintage perfumes that seemed to cling to the garments like whispered secrets. Mathew had been coming here since childhood, drawn by Rose's patient explanations of construction techniques and historical context, but working here felt different. More permanent. More like stepping into a role they weren't sure they were ready to fill.

Rose emerged from the back room, her silver hair pinned in its customary elegant chignon, wearing a perfectly tailored 1950s day dress in navy blue with tiny white polka dots. At seventy-three, she moved with the grace of someone who had spent decades understanding how clothing should flow with the body, how fabric should fall to create the most flattering silhouette.

"Good morning, dear," she said, her voice carrying the warmth that had made her a beloved figure in the neighborhood for nearly fifty years. "I've laid out some pieces that need attention today. Nothing too challenging for your first official day."

Mathew nodded, hanging their jacket on the vintage coat rack near the door. They wore their usual uniform of dark jeans and an oversized sweater, clothing chosen more for concealment than expression. The contrast between their deliberately shapeless attire and the carefully curated femininity surrounding them felt stark in the morning light.

"I still don't know why you think I'm the right person for this," Mathew said, running their fingers along the edge of a nearby display case filled with vintage jewelry. "I know you've been teaching me about restoration, but actually running the shop..."

Rose's eyes crinkled with something that looked suspiciously like knowing amusement. "Oh, I think you understand these dresses better than you realize. Come, let me show you what we're working with today."

She led Mathew to the restoration area in the back, where natural light from a large window illuminated a workspace that looked like a surgeon's operating theater designed by someone with exquisite taste. Magnifying lamps, specialized tools, and spools of thread in every conceivable color were arranged with military precision. On the central table lay a 1940s cocktail dress in emerald green silk, its beaded bodice catching the light like scattered stars.

"This beauty came in yesterday," Rose explained, her fingers hovering over the fabric with reverent care. "The beadwork is original, but some of the silk lining has deteriorated. The owner's grandmother wore it to celebrate V-E Day in 1945. Can you imagine the joy that dress has witnessed?"

Mathew leaned closer, studying the intricate pattern of the beadwork, the way the silk had been cut on the bias to create that perfect drape. Without thinking, they reached out to touch the fabric, then stopped, hand suspended in mid-air.

"Go ahead," Rose encouraged gently. "You can't understand a dress without feeling how it wants to move."

The silk was cool and smooth under Mathew's fingertips, and they could almost sense the ghost of its original owner—a young woman dancing in celebration, the dress swirling around her legs as she spun in her lover's arms. The image was so vivid it made Mathew's chest tighten with an emotion they couldn't quite name.

"The construction is incredible," Mathew murmured, examining the hand-finished seams. "Look at these French seams, and the way they've reinforced the stress points without compromising the line of the dress."

Rose smiled, settling into her chair at the workspace. "That's exactly what I mean. You see what these dresses are trying to tell you. Now, the question is—how do we help this one tell its story again?"

For the next hour, Rose guided Mathew through the assessment process, teaching them to document every detail before beginning any restoration work. They photographed the dress from multiple angles, noted areas of damage, and researched comparable pieces in Rose's extensive library of fashion history books.

"The key," Rose explained, threading a needle with silk thread that perfectly matched the dress's original color, "is to honor the original maker's intention while ensuring the garment can continue to be worn and loved. We're not just fixing clothes—we're preserving the dreams and memories they carry."

As they worked, Rose began sharing stories about the dress's era—the rationing that made silk precious, the way women saved for months to afford a single special dress, the skill of seamstresses who could create magic with limited resources. Her voice painted pictures of a time when clothing was treasured, when each garment represented not just fashion but hope and celebration and the determination to find beauty even in difficult times.

"You know," Rose said, glancing up from her delicate stitching, "I've been thinking that Kiki might be a better name for someone working in this shop. Mathew feels so formal for someone with such gentle hands and an intuitive understanding of what these dresses need."

The needle slipped in Mathew's fingers, pricking their thumb. They sucked in a sharp breath, more from surprise than pain. "Kiki?"

"It suits you," Rose said simply, as if she'd been thinking about this for much longer than the few hours since they'd arrived. "Strong but feminine. Classic but with a modern edge. Like the perfect vintage dress that looks just as stunning today as it did seventy years ago."

Mathew—Kiki—stared at the emerald dress, their heart beating faster than seemed reasonable. The name felt like trying on a piece of clothing that fit perfectly, something they'd never dared to reach for but had always secretly wanted.

"I don't know," they said quietly. "I mean, I'm just helping out temporarily."

Rose's smile was patient and knowing. "Sometimes the most important changes start as temporary arrangements. Why don't you try it on for size? Just for today."

The shop bell chimed, interrupting the moment, and Rose rose gracefully to greet the customer. Kiki remained at the restoration table, staring at the emerald dress and feeling something shift inside them, like tumblers falling into place in a lock they hadn't even realized existed.

Through the doorway, they could hear Rose's warm greeting and the customer's response—a woman looking for something special for her daughter's wedding. Rose's voice carried the particular tone she used when helping someone find not just a dress, but a piece of themselves they'd been searching for.

Kiki picked up the needle again, this time holding it steady as they began the careful work of reinforcing a delicate seam. The name Rose had offered seemed to settle around them like the perfect vintage coat—unexpected but undeniably right. For the first time in longer than they could remember, the reflection in the shop's antique mirrors didn't feel like a stranger wearing their face.

Outside, Denver continued its morning rhythm, but inside the shop, surrounded by decades of carefully preserved dreams, Kiki began to understand that some stories could only be told through the patient work of restoration—both of vintage dresses and of the people brave enough to wear them.