Valeria pointed to Elena. “My mom. She’s a magician.”

Elena’s fingers trembled as she held the delicate champagne fabric. The quinceañera dress for her daughter, Valeria, was ninety percent complete. Six months of secret work, of hand-embroidered pearls, of love stitched into every seam.

“No, no, no,” Elena whispered, pressing the foot pedal. Nothing.

From that day on, Elena kept the manual on top of her sewing table, not in the drawer. And every time the machine hiccupped, she whispered, “Gracias, manual.”