She never bought a designer bag. She never followed a rule. But from that day on, whenever someone asked, “Where’d you get that style?” she’d smile and say, “The Gallery. And every woman belongs there.”

Clara turned to see Valeria, the gallery’s curator, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a jumpsuit made of what looked like woven constellations.

And somewhere, in a warehouse that existed between a dream and a sidewalk, the mirrors flickered, waiting for the next visitor.

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