I always walked slowly past the boutique on Main Street after my shift ended. My feet knew the rhythm.

One step, then another, like moving through honey. I didn’t stop on purpose. I just… drifted.

There was something tender and painful in the way those dresses stood behind the glass — proud, perfect, expensive.

Like royalty behind a barrier that I wasn’t allowed to cross.

The mannequins stared out at the world like they were better than it. Better than me. Sometimes I felt like they were judging me. Mocking me.

They stood frozen in place, wrapped in satin and beads, while I was stuck wearing the same black work polo and name tag every day.

My reflection in the glass looked small next to them, like a girl playing grown-up in someone else’s life.

I pressed my palm to the window. The glass was cool, smooth. The dresses shimmered under the soft lights inside.

One had a skirt like poured champagne. Another looked like it would rustle like leaves in the wind.

I imagined how the fabric would feel under my fingers. Light, silky, with just the right weight.

I could see the seams in my head, like puzzle pieces coming together.

I didn’t just want to wear them. I wanted to make them. That was my real dream.

But dreams cost money. And I was just a cashier at the food mart on Jefferson Avenue. My fingers scanned barcodes, not fabric.

The only cloth I could afford came from the clearance bin at Dollar Threads, usually in colors like mustard yellow or dusty brown. Even then, I only bought scraps.

Still, sometimes at night, I sketched dresses on napkins and receipts, hoping one day I’d have the tools to make them real.

Clutching a little box of cake — chocolate with cream frosting, Nancy’s favorite — I walked to the big white house on the corner. Nancy’s place.

She lived in a different world than mine. But somehow, she liked me anyway. We’d met when she came into the store looking for almond milk.

She smiled like sunshine and asked if the daisies she bought would last until Sunday brunch. We started talking. About flowers. Then clothes. Then life.

She opened the door before I could knock. “You brought cake!” Her voice was full of joy.

“I owed you,” I said, holding the box up. “For last time.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, ushering me in. “But I’m glad you did.”

We ended up, like always, in her closet. It was as big as my entire apartment. Bigger maybe. The lights were soft and golden.

Shoes sat in clear cases like museum pieces. Dresses hung in perfect rows, each one a masterpiece — silk, wool, lace, velvet. Some still had tags.

“Pick one,” Nancy said, waving her hand. “Any of them. Take it.”

I ran my hand down the hem of a wine-colored gown. “I can’t. It wouldn’t feel right.”

She sighed. “You’ve got taste, June. Better than most designers I know. Your mama teach you that?”

I hesitated. “I never knew her. Or my dad. I was left at the hospital. Been on my own since.”

Nancy tilted her head. “You said you wear a key?”

I touched the chain at my neck. “Yeah. Had it since I was a baby. Don’t even know what it’s for. Probably just a dumb keepsake.”

“Let me see.” Her fingers brushed mine as she leaned closer. She studied the little brass key, her eyes narrowing.

“My parents had one like this. From Hawthorne Savings. It’s a ceremonial key they give to deposit box holders.”

“A bank?” I laughed. “You sure?”

She looked me dead in the eyes. “I’m serious. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The next morning, the sky looked like it hadn’t slept either. Thick gray clouds hung low, like they were waiting to pour.

I wrapped my coat tighter around me, but it didn’t help the way my stomach twisted.

My hands were shaking, and I kept wiping my palms on my jeans.

I had never been inside a bank that fancy — the kind with marble columns and doors so shiny they reflected your nervous face back at you.

We stood on the front steps for a second too long. My feet didn’t want to move. I looked at Nancy.

“What if this is nothing?” I asked.

She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Then it’s nothing. But what if it’s not?”

That was enough. I nodded and followed her inside.

The floors shined like mirrors. Every step echoed, and I felt like I didn’t belong. A man in a gray vest stepped toward us. He looked like someone from a movie — neat, polite, serious.

“How can I help you?” he asked with a small smile.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the key. My fingers were clumsy. “Um… this belonged to my birth mother. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

He took the key gently, as if it were made of glass. After scanning the number, he paused and looked at me.

“I’ll need an answer to the security question,” he said.

My heart dropped. I didn’t know anything about a question. My mind went blank.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered.

I looked at Nancy. She gave me an encouraging nod.

“Try… June,” I whispered. “My name’s June.”

The man’s face softened. “Please follow me.”

We walked down a quiet hallway, and he led me into a small room.

The walls were lined with dark wood panels, and there were old books stacked neatly on the shelves. It smelled like paper and polish.

He turned to me and spoke gently.
“This key opens a deposit account created thirty-three years ago. On your birthdate.”