The scent hit you first—tanned hide and warm beeswax, rich and earthy, curling into the air like something ancient. The shop was narrow, shaded, and lined with shelves of handcrafted belts, sandals, journals, and satchels, each one hanging like a story waiting to be worn.
Tourists wandered in off the lantern-lit street, drawn by the cool interior and the smell of real craftsmanship. Some came for custom belts. Others for monogrammed passport covers. The occasional old traveler asked for repairs—boots long loved, soles half-worn.
Mai always obliged. Quiet, patient. Measuring in silence. Sketching in chalk. Sometimes he let customers choose the thread color. Outside, Hội An bustled: camera shutters, the clink of cold coffee glasses, lanterns nodding in the breeze. Inside, it was slower. Focused.
Mai glanced at her products and admired the stitching, knowing full well the care it took to make each bag–one loop at a time, binding not just leather, but a little piece of Hội An into every thread.