The boutique was quiet again. Not still, not truly silent, but quiet in the way a body is when it’s holding something in. The air carried the scent of steamed fabric and jasmine tea. Somewhere in the back, Simone was finishing a late call with the Zurich vendor. I could hear her pacing lightly, her words clipped and professional. But I stayed where I was, fingers curled against the smooth grain of the atelier’s main table. The one Julian had restored with his bare hands. The one I had bled ...