Chapter 83

• The boutique stayed open late that night, though we had no customers and no new collection to display. The team moved quietly, not because of exhaustion, but because there was something sacred about the quiet. Claudia had made tea and left it warming in the corner. Helena stood by the drafting table, slowly aligning fabric swatches in small rows of color. One of the interns was stitching by hand, her needle moving in gentle arcs as if trying to match the rhythm of the room.
• Julian had not said much since we returned. He stayed nearby, close enough that I could feel his presence even when my back was turned. He was reorganizing some of the archived sketches, pulling the early ones into a new folder marked with both my name and my mother’s. The care he took with each page reminded me of someone tending to something already loved.
• I had gone upstairs to the storage loft and pulled out a small box I had not opened in years. It had been tucked beneath bolts of old fabric and forgotten patterns. Inside were a few of my mother’s tools, still wrapped in their original cloth roll—needles, chalk, measuring tape worn soft from use. I sat on the floor and unrolled them slowly, letting my fingers trace the edges without trying to justify the emotion building in my chest.