The boutique smelled of fresh fabric and polished wood, a quiet reminder of all the years we had poured into it. I walked slowly between the racks, fingertips brushing over dresses that had been stitched in laughter, in frustration, in triumph. Each piece held a memory, a struggle, a victory, and I wanted whoever carried this forward to feel it all, not just see it as a product.

Julian came up behind me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “You look like you’re measuring the air,” he ...