Isabelle turned back to the final room of the exhibition. It was called “The Future Imperfect.” The mannequins wore pieces that had never been produced: a coat that could be refolded into a bag, a dress that changed color with the wearer’s temperature, a suit whose seams were embroidered with the names of women who had written to Isabelle over the years—strangers who had found courage in a collar, comfort in a cuff.
Tonight, the gallery was empty except for her.
“Thank you,” Isabelle said, and her voice did not waver. “That dress—it was the first time I believed I wasn’t making things just for myself.”
Isabelle rarely accepted thanks. But the docent’s face was so hopeful, so full of that pure, uncynical love for clothing that had once been her own reason for waking.