My daughter lay in a hospital bed in Queens after a six-hour emergency spinal operation, and not a single member of our community association came to see her.
I returned to my silent shop on Northern Boulevard, the morning sun already high enough to cast long shadows across the empty cutting tables. My hands trembled as I locked the front door, turning the deadbolt until it clicked shut with a hollow sound. The street outside hummed with traffic, but inside, the air was thick with my own dread.
I needed proof. Proof of my sharpness, my control, my years of meticulous work.
I started with the old inventory records, stacked in dusty boxes near the back. I pulled down ledgers from previous years, the heavy books thudding onto the table. Each page was a testament to my tireless management, my precise accounting.
My fingers traced the spine of a leather-bound notebook, tucked away on the top shelf, behind a heavy bolt of imported Korean raw silk I hadn’t touched in years. The silk was deep sapphire, still wrapped tight, smelling faintly of mothballs and faraway markets.
No, this wasn’t one of mine. It felt different.
I pulled the bolt down, my muscles aching with the effort. Behind it, nestled perfectly in the space created by the fabric’s curve, was the notebook. It was smaller than my official ledgers, bound in dark brown leather, worn smooth at the edges.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew this handwriting. Min-jun’s.
I opened it, and the truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. Inside, laid out in his neat, confident script, was a meticulous double-entry ledger. Not for the shop. For himself.
Page after page, dating back to 2018. Cash premiums. High-end clients, carefully listed. Prices significantly higher than what appeared in my official records. Min-jun had been systematically siphoning funds. Underreporting sales taxes. Funneling over $60,000 into a private account, all while I paid him a master tailor’s wage, trusting him with my legacy.
The shop was silent again, but now it felt like a grave.
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