The boutique had gone silent the second the scream echoed across the marble floor.
A wealthy woman in a tight black dress with sheer polka-dot sleeves stood over a young sales assistant, her face twisted with rage. She pointed a manicured finger at a red wine stain on the hem of her gown.
“You touched my dress with those filthy hands!”
The young assistant, a girl with braided hair and a name tag that read “Anya,” tried to apologize, but the woman was already grabbing her canvas tote bag. She turned it upside down.
Everything spilled across the white marble — lip gloss, a phone, a small notebook… and a carefully wrapped bundle of white fabric.
The wealthy woman snatched the bundle and tore away the tissue paper.
It was a wedding dress.
Delicate. Hand-stitched. Beautiful.
But what made her stop breathing was the small embroidered patch sewn into the bodice. Inside the delicate frame was a photograph of a young woman with long dark hair and a bright smile.
The wealthy woman’s hands began to tremble violently. Her voice cracked.
“I stitched that for the owner’s daughter the week she disappeared for her wedding.”
She looked at the young assistant, who was now crying openly.
Anya’s voice was barely a whisper.
“My mother said he would know why she never came back.”
The wealthy woman sank to her knees on the marble floor, still clutching the dress. Tears cut through her perfect makeup.
For the first time in years, she was looking at her daughter’s face again.