A soft wooden building under a flurry of snow, hidden from most prying eyes and locked tight. Littered along small mannequins and busts are dresses fit for no one, layered and produced for some unknown frames and are not for sale to any even when asked. Across tables are networks of unused fabrics on bolts, untouched and ready.
Inside under dim candlelight that seems to pour in from somewhere else, a shadow is cast on worn-down walls. Painted is an image of hair and the flow of a needle and thread visible from the main entry, like a ghost working away in silence. On the door clear as day