I was walking quickly, my head down, my fingers nervously twisting the strap of my bag. I felt like a trespasser. A ghost wandering through a neighbourhood that didn't know my name. Then I stopped. It wasn't a grand showroom with golden lights or mannequins with painted faces. It was a small, quiet studio with a single glass window. Inside, there were no racks of endless clothes, no shouting colours. There was only one dress, draped over a wooden form. It was defined by a presence that felt like the first light of a winter morning, soft, muted, and absolute. It possessed a line so perfect it looked like it had been carved from a single, uninterrupted thought. I stood there, my reflection a thin, blurred shape against the glass. I watched how the fabric didn't just hang. It lived. It had a line, a subtle, anatomical path that started at the waist and climbed toward the shoulder. It looked unfinished, yet entirely whole. It didn't look like it wanted to change the woman who wore it. It looked like it wanted to listen to her. I pressed my hand against the cool glass. My palm left a small, foggy print that slowly faded...

Some stories are only finished when worn.