It was dawn. The world was still dark and sleepy. The sky wore a soft gray, and rain fell quietly, like it didn't want to wake anyone. The fitting room smelled of fabric and candle wax, the air heavy with warmth and sweat. Vivienne and André were tangled together on one of the chaise lounges, skin against skin, breathing slow and uneven. The room was messy. Half of André's shirt hung from the chair, one of Vivienne's underwear was on the floor, and the faint smell of wine still lingered.
But Vivienne wasn't dreaming of him. Not even close.
Her mind had dragged her back—years away—to when she was just seven. The night looked exactly like this one: gray, rainy, sad. She was holding her mother's dress with both hands, clutching so tight her little fingers trembled. Her mother, Lisette, carried two worn-out luggages, her hair soaked from the rain as they walked through the crooked streets of the slums.
