Simon waited outside the small shop on a quiet corner. He was a gentle man in his 50s, with kind eyes and ink-stained fingers.
“You must be Addie, the one who visited Marianne every Sunday,” he said softly. “She told me you’d come.”
“She talked about me?”
“Constantly. She said I’d recognize you by the way you held your shoulders. She was right.”
I followed him inside, breathing in fabric and lavender. Bolts of silk lined the walls, while half-finished gowns rested on wooden forms.
“So… how is this going
