That night, after the last package went out, I lingered in the boutique alone. The air still held the faint smell of steamed wool and paper tape from the day’s work. I turned off the overhead lights and left only the small lamp by the front counter on. It cast a circle of warm light over the register and the old brass scissors we kept there — a pair Simone had once sharpened herself.

I sat down behind the counter, listening to the faint sounds of the street outside. The city never went ...