The boutique had emptied hours ago, but I could still feel the day inside the walls. The mannequins stood quietly by the windows, dressed in what remained of the white silk pieces, but most of the racks were bare. The air still held traces of cinnamon from the cookies Simone had brought in for the staff, mixed with the sharper scent of packing tape from the shipping station we had set up in the back.

The white silk line was gone. Not gone as in forgotten — gone as in claimed, in homes now, ...