The Last Stitch

I was fifteen when my best friend Mia’s boyfriend, Leo, died in a car crash. He’d been a passenger, thrown through the windshield, and the funeral was a blur of black clothes and stifled sobs. But what stuck with me wasn’t the coffin or the eulogy. It was the suit. Leo had always sworn he’d never wear a tux again, not after his cousin’s wedding where the jacket had been two sizes too tight and he’d spent the night with his arms pinned to his sides. Yet there he was, laid out in a crisp black tuxedo, as if the funeral home had its own cruel sense of humor.

The night after the burial, I dreamt I was at the old roller rink, the one that had closed down years ago but still stood at the edge of town. The floor was cracked, the lights flickered, and the air smelled of stale popcorn and dust. I was with Leo’s friends—Nathan, Pete, and a guy I barely knew named Derek—sitting on the faded benches near the entrance, laughing and shoving each other like nothing had happened. I wasn’t part of their circle. I was perched on a stool by the vending machines, my phone glowing in my hand, texting Mia who was home sick.

It was the middle of the night, and the rink was supposed to be locked. But the door creaked open, and a figure stepped in, silhouetted against the orange streetlamp outside. I looked up, my thumb frozen on the screen. It was Leo. He walked in with the same lopsided grin he’d always had, but his skin was the color of a faded photograph, and his suit—the tuxedo from the funeral—hung on him like a scarecrow’s clothes. He was coming straight for me.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, his voice a low rasp, like gravel sliding over glass. His eyes were black, not just dark, but empty, like the pupils had swallowed the irises. ‘None of you should.’

Nathan laughed nervously. ‘Come on, man, you’re not going to spoil the mood. We were just talking about the good times.’

Leo didn’t look at them. He kept his gaze on me, and I felt a cold sweat trickle down my spine. ‘The good times are over,’ he said. ‘The tuxedo… it binds. It remembers every tear, every drop of blood, every promise broken. I tried to refuse it, but they sewed it on me. They sewed the last stitch when I wasn’t looking.’

I tried to move, but my legs were heavy, like they were filled with lead. The phone in my hand vibrated—a message from Mia: ‘Are you okay? I feel like something’s wrong.’

Leo reached into his jacket and pulled out a thread. It was silver and glinted in the flickering light. ‘They left a loose end,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘You’re the one who saw me in the tux. You have to cut it.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’

He knelt in front of me, and the stench of formaldehyde and old roses washed over me. ‘At the funeral, they didn’t close the casket properly. A strand of my suit got caught in the hinge. You were the last one to touch it. You pulled it out. Now the thread runs through you.’

I remembered, in a haze, standing by the open casket, brushing my fingers over the satin lining, feeling a snag and tugging free a silver thread. I’d thought it was just loose stitching. I’d shoved it in my pocket.

He held out his hand, palm up, and there was a silver thread wrapped around his finger, tied to a button on his jacket. ‘Cut it,’ he said. ‘With your teeth. It’s the only way to let me go.’

I looked at the thread, and it was thin, almost invisible, but it seemed to pulse. I brought the thread to my mouth, but before I could bite, Derek yelled out, ‘Don’t! He’s not Leo!’

I spun around. Derek was standing, his face contorted, his eyes wide. ‘He’s the thing that took his place. Look at the suit—there’s no name tag. The funeral home sewed in a name tag, I saw it. But there’s nothing there.’

I looked back at Leo. The tuxedo jacket was pristine, but where a name tag might have been, there was a small, dark stain, like dried blood. Leo smiled, and his teeth were sharp, too sharp.

‘Too late,’ he said, and the room went dark.

I woke up screaming, my heart pounding. My phone was on the nightstand, buzzing with a message from Mia: ‘Did you have the dream too?’

I didn’t reply. I went to my pocket, still shaking, and pulled out the silver thread I’d saved from the funeral. It was real. I held it up to the moonlight, and it shimmered, cold and alive.

A week later, I heard that Nathan had died in his sleep. Then Pete, then Derek. The paper said it was a freak chain of cardiac arrests. But I knew better. I went to Leo’s grave, that silver thread coiled in my hand. The headstone was simple, but there was a fresh crack running across the name. I knelt and buried the thread in the dirt, hoping that would end it.

That night, I dreamt of the rink again. Leo was there, but he was whole, his tuxedo clean, a name tag reading ‘LEO’ on his chest. He smiled at me, and this time it was warm. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘The thread cut the bond. I’m free.’

I woke up and felt a sense of peace. But the next morning, when I looked in the mirror, I saw a thin, silver thread trailing from my temple, like a strand of hair, glinting. I tried to pull it, but it was embedded in my skin, and it followed me no matter where I turned. I haven’t worn a tux since. I don’t think I ever will. But sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I feel a faint tug at my scalp, and I wonder if I’m the one who’s still being sewn.