The boutique was quiet that morning, though not empty. Aisha moved between racks, humming softly as she adjusted hems and smoothed fabric with a care that surprised me for someone so young. I was at the counter, sorting through mail, the same way I did most mornings now. There were catalogues from suppliers, neatly folded invoices, and the occasional note from a customer who had felt moved to write.

Halfway through the stack, one envelope stood out. It was heavier, the paper a muted cream with ...