The letter sat on the counter for half the morning before I opened it. At first I thought it was another request from a brand, another offer I would probably turn down. But the handwriting on the envelope looked different. It was slower, careful, as though whoever wrote it believed letters still mattered.

Inside was a note from the curator of the botanical garden. He wrote that he had slipped into the boutique a few weeks ago, unnoticed, and had been struck by the way the fabrics seemed to ...