I turned the hoop over. The wooden rim was darkened from fingers on the top edge, lighter underneath. My thumbnail caught on a blue knot no larger than a seed. I pressed it flat.
The back was a ledger of small compromises.
Tiny knots peppered the linen, each one a stop and start. Fuzzy tails poked out where I’d snipped too close. A green thread had been carried three inches across bare fabric, skipping a gap where no green belonged. It crossed the back like badly placed wiring, tense and unnecessary.
The front was a blue flower with a yellow center. Simple outline.
One colour was trapped beneath another. The shortcut had saved nearly a minute.
The stitch after it tightened, the floss pulling the weave into a small pucker. That was the lower-left petal. I know which phone call did it.
The needle went through the crowded section with a small pop. I was working the leaves now, and the back kept accumulating — knots, tails, a single strand of pink I’d trapped beneath the green without meaning to.
When I finished, I snipped the final thread and held the piece up against the window. The back faced me. The green wire glowed a little in the light. I trimmed the tails short but not flush. The green thread stayed. The piece was done and the back was done too, and I slid it into a drawer, unbacked, still holding the smell of steam from the iron I’d used on the front.