He smiled like someone surrendering to courage. She wrapped a small painted scarf in paper and added an extra scrap of cloth tied with twine. “For when you need a reminder,” she said.

When Mara returned, she carried a leather portfolio and a small velvet pouch. “We’d like to place an order,” she said. “A small capsule to start—pieces that feel like your voice.”

“The first big one,” Jialissa admitted, noticing how her pulse matched the drumbeat of the nearby busker’s set.

The woman smiled. “Then you picked the right crowd.” She introduced herself as Mara, a buyer for a small boutique that showcased local designers. Their conversation flowed quickly—materials, inspirations, the ethics of sourcing. Mara’s gaze kept returning to a denim dress Jialissa had altered into something both brave and tender: raw edges softened by lace and a back embroidered with a tiny pair of wings.