She froze. It wasn't Evan. It was his assistant, a woman named Claire.
Naomi turned slightly. "Yes?"
Claire stepped into the bathroom doorway, expression warm. "Just wanted to say it's good to see you. Hope you're having an okay night."
The kindness caught Naomi off guard. She nodded awkwardly. "Thank you."
Claire lingered as if wanting to say something more, but then simply smiled and disappeared back into the hall. Naomi exhaled slowly, a breath she didn't know she was holding.
But just as she gathered her things to leave the floor, she glanced toward Evan's door and saw the gala invitation pinned neatly to the outside, as if waiting for her. Her stomach twisted. She walked past it without slowing.
But the question followed her all the way to the elevator, growing louder with every step: Was she going to show up? And if she did, would she survive whatever waited for her there?
She didn't know yet. But the dream buried deep inside her, the one the world forgot, was starting to breathe again.
The next day drifted in slowly, gray clouds hanging low over Chicago like a blanket pulled too tight. Naomi walked down the street with a paper bag of laundry cradled under her arm. The neighborhood felt quieter than usual, as if the winter chill had convinced most people to stay inside. Even the buses rumbled by with fewer passengers pressed against the fogged windows.
She turned the corner toward Maplewood Avenue, where a row of independent shops lined the block: barbershops, thrift stores, a bakery whose window always fogged from warm bread, and tucked between them, a narrow storefront with a faded sign that read: Harris Alterations. Its windows were crowded with mannequins wearing vintage coats and sequined dresses from another lifetime.
Naomi paused in front of the shop, her breath forming pale clouds on the glass. She hadn't meant to stop. She was on her way home between jobs, her feet moving on autopilot, but something tugged her attention toward that doorway. She remembered the gala invitation waiting like a dare on her nightstand: Formal attire required.
Right. As if she owned anything fancier than a church dress three sizes too big.
She let out a tired sigh and pushed the door open. A bell above her head jingled, soft and welcoming. The shop smelled faintly of lavender sachets and old cedar trunks. Racks of fabric swayed gently as the heat from the radiator hummed along the walls.
Naomi hesitated just inside, unsure if she belonged in a place where everything shimmered with history and craftsmanship.
"Close the door, sugar. You're letting out all the warm air."