Every evening after work, I slowed outside the boutique on Main Street. The dresses in the window shimmered like royalty behind glass— satin, beads, velvet — untouchable and perfect. My reflection beside them looked small, a cashier in a black polo who didn’t belong. I didn’t dream of wearing them. I dreamed of creating them. At night, I sketched gowns on napkins, though all I could afford were scraps from clearance bins.

Nancy, a wealthy customer who’d become my friend, often invited me into her world. Her closet was larger than my apartment, filled with designer pieces she urged me to take. I always refused. One night, she noticed the brass key I wore on a chain. “That looks like a Hawthorne Savings deposit key,” she said. My breath caught. It had been with me since infancy — the only link to my unknown parents.

The next morning, trembling, I followed Nancy into the marble halls of Hawthorne Savings. When I presented the key, the banker paused. After a security check, he led me to a private room and placed an old envelope before me. My name — June — was written in faded ink. Inside was a letter from my mother, who had died of cancer days after I was born. She left her savings for me, along with one final message: “I love you. Go to 42 Cypress Lane.”

Nancy drove me there. Beneath a willow tree, I found her grave: Lena Maynard, Loving Mother, Fierce Spirit. I pressed my forehead to the stone and whispered, “I love you too, Mama.”

Weeks later, the inheritance transformed my apartment into a studio. Fabric, machines, and sketches filled the room. My first creation stood proudly on a mannequin — a plum dress with ivory buttons.

Nancy arrived with an invitation: a fashion showcase. Tears stung my eyes as I pressed it to my chest. For the first time, I wasn’t dreaming through a window. I was stepping through the door.