Chapter 87

• Three weeks had passed since I stood in front of the mirror wearing the coat my mother had once only imagined. The boutique had reopened quietly, with no announcement, no campaign, no curated story. There were no cameras waiting. No velvet rope at the door. Just a slow return to rhythm. The windows were updated. The mannequins wore pieces I had touched myself. The fabric was simpler now. Intentional. The kind that did not shout, but endured.
• Inside, the space felt different. The walls carried less tension. The silence was no longer defensive. The air did not hold its breath the way it used to. There was room again. Not the kind that came from emptiness, but from something hard-earned. A steadiness that came only after the dust had begun to settle.
• Most days began the same way. I arrived before the others. I walked the perimeter of the studio like I always had, fingers brushing the edge of the table, eyes checking the light. It was habit, but also something deeper. A way of making sure the ground still held. A way of saying, without words, that I was still here.