She's walking down the aisles of clothes she'll never buy. Hand running through the soft fabric, watching the colors sway with each touch. Burying her face into one, grasping with those small hands against the folds of a dress. The patterns are simple, some floral, some velveted stripes, but this one is simpler still.
The smell of the lace is clean and neutral, department store fresh. To her: a small sliver of heaven. She's never felt such sleek fabric before, the gentle waves and spirals of the lace give under her touch. Stepping back, wide-eyed she looks at her mother and asks if she can have it.
No.