Chapter Text
Chapter 5
The café was small and brightly lit, smelling of burnt espresso and cinnamon. Katherine wasn’t quite sure why she’d come in—just that Nadia had fallen asleep in the stroller and her feet had grown tired from walking. The café had warm air, a window seat, and the illusion of stillness.
She ordered tea. The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow when she asked for it “properly steeped.”
“You want… what, exactly?”
“Boiled water. Loose leaves if you have them. Not from a paper packet,” Katherine said primly, resting her hands on the counter.
The girl—pink hair, nose ring, tattoos like scripture down her arms—smirked. “Right. Victorian realness. Got it.”
Katherine bit back the instinct to correct her. She wasn’t Victorian. She was from an era older than that. Much older.
She found a seat in the corner by the window, nestled Nadia’s stroller beside her, and tried to pretend she belonged.
Five minutes later, the girl from the counter dropped the tea off and slid into the seat across from her without asking. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “My feet hurt. And you look like you could use someone to talk to.”
“I didn’t ask for company,” Katherine replied, voice calm but clipped.
“Cool,” the girl said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “I didn’t either. Funny how life works out.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of a dishwasher and the gentle clink of ceramic mugs.
“I’m Junie,” the girl offered. “You got a name or just ‘Mysterious Lady in Pearls’?”
Katherine stared at her for a moment. “Katherine.”
Junie nodded. “You’re not from around here.”
“Not from this century,” Katherine muttered before she could stop herself.
Junie laughed. “No kidding.”
They sat there for a beat. Then, Junie pointed toward the stroller. “Your kid?”
Katherine nodded, glancing toward Nadia, who stirred but didn’t wake.
“She’s beautiful. You look… proud.”
“I am.”
“But also kind of like you think the world is about to collapse on her.”
Katherine flinched. “It’s not the world I fear. It’s what it can do to a girl.”
Junie leaned back, sipping her iced coffee. “You mean like freedom, voting rights, education, having a bank account in her own name?”
Katherine’s jaw tightened. “I mean vulnerability. Being alone in a world that sees women as objects. That hasn’t changed.”
Junie’s smile faded, and for a moment, her eyes sharpened. “You’re right. It hasn’t. But the difference now is—we can fight back. I don’t need a man or a title or a marriage proposal to matter. And neither does your daughter.”
That struck something in Katherine. Deep and painful. She stared at her tea, suddenly unsure what she wanted from it anymore.
“I grew up believing a woman’s only power was in what she could hide behind,” Katherine said, her voice softer now. “Beauty. Wit. Quiet manipulation.”
Junie leaned in. “And look where that got us. Wars. Dead queens. Disney villains.”
Katherine almost smiled.
“You’re doing good,” Junie added after a pause. “I can see it. You’re here, you’re surviving. And she’s lucky—because you know what it’s like to have to earn your space.”
Katherine looked at her daughter, her heart full and aching. “She deserves better than I ever had.”
“Then give it to her,” Junie said, finishing her coffee and standing. “And if you ever want help, or just someone who won’t blink when you talk like an Austen heroine—I’m here every Thursday.”
She was gone before Katherine could reply.
Katherine stared out the window a while longer, hands wrapped around a cup that had grown cold. The music playing overhead shifted to something loud and rhythmic. Not her style. Not yet.
But maybe… one day.
The outreach center hummed with the muted sounds of conversation and clinking coffee cups. It was quieter than usual—Nadia had finally fallen asleep on Katherine’s shoulder, a rare moment of peace. Katherine sat at a corner table folding tiny sleeves back into Nadia’s secondhand coat when Junie slid into the seat across from her.
Junie, with her ever-changing braids and knowing eyes, nursed a lukewarm tea and studied Katherine for a moment before speaking.
“You always dress like you stepped out of a vintage film. People would pay for that.”
Katherine looked up, confused. “Pay for what?”
Junie gestured vaguely. “The way you put things together—your clothes, the way you pin your hair, even your boots. You’ve got an eye. I’ve seen girls spend stupid money for less on Instagram.”
Katherine blinked. “Instagram?”
Junie grinned. “You know, where people post pictures of their lunch and their shoes and somehow get rich doing it.”
Katherine arched a brow, unimpressed but curious. “And you think I should… post pictures?”
Junie leaned in. “Not exactly. But have you thought about reselling vintage? Thrift, estate sales, flea markets—find pieces with style, clean them up, put them online. Depop, Etsy, Poshmark. You have the look and the story. People eat that up.”
“I don’t have a story,” Katherine replied, careful.
Junie shrugged. “You’re a single mom who dresses like a French spy. That’s a story.”
Katherine almost smiled, just a tilt at the corner of her mouth. “Even if I did this… I don’t know how to start. I’ve never… sold anything before. Not like that.”
“That’s why I’m offering to help,” Junie said, softer now. “I can show you how to set up an account, take photos, write up listings. You’ve got taste, Kat. People don’t. That’s a business.”
Katherine looked down at her hands, Nadia’s little coat still resting in her lap. “I don’t want to be dependent on anyone,” she said quietly. “I need something that’s mine. Something that keeps her fed.”
Junie nodded. “Then this is your first step. You’re already doing the hard part—surviving. The rest is just… uploading.”
The idea settled in her chest like something warm. Unfamiliar, but hopeful.
“I’ll try,” Katherine said at last. “But only if you promise not to make me do hashtags.”
Junie laughed, full and unapologetic. “Deal. You be the mystery, I’ll be the marketing.”
The lamp on the kitchen table flickered once before settling into a dim glow. Nadia slept curled in a makeshift crib, her soft breaths the only sound in the tiny room. Katherine stood at the table, a scarf wrapped around her hair, sleeves rolled up, staring down at the pale blue vintage blouse she’d carefully steamed and laid out like an offering.
She wasn’t used to working like this—quiet, methodical, exposed. Every hunt she’d ever done had been in shadows, running from monsters no one else could see. This was something entirely different. This required vulnerability.
A chipped phone rested nearby, its cracked screen glowing with the app Junie had installed—Depop. Katherine eyed it like it might bite.
Junie’s text blinked on screen:
“Just take the photo like I showed you. Natural light. Clean backdrop. People want to feel the piece. Not see your sink.”
Katherine snorted softly. “As if that weren’t obvious.”
She turned to the old bedsheet she’d tacked to the wall—her makeshift studio. The blouse hung from a wooden hanger, a soft ivory button-down with scalloped edges and delicate embroidery near the collar. It had belonged to a woman who had spoken kindly at the church, who’d offered it to Katherine with the simple words, “You have a better eye than I ever did.”
She lifted the phone and snapped a photo. Then another. Then cursed and took three more.
Next came the listing.
Title: Vintage 1950s Pearl Button Blouse – Delicate Embroidery
Size: Small
Condition: Gently worn, minor thread aging at collar. Cleaned and steamed.
Price: $32
Description:
“Soft ivory blouse with fine detailing. Romantic silhouette, ideal for spring. Feels like something you’d wear to write letters you never send.”
Katherine hovered over the last line, fingers lingering. It felt too much. Too close to who she’d been before. The girl who wrote letters to a mother already buried. To a child she’d never held.
But then—maybe that’s what made it honest.
She pressed Post.
The listing blinked to life on her screen, surreal and sudden. A small victory in a world still too big, too fast. Katherine leaned back in the chair, watching the glow of her posted item, waiting for the inevitable silence to follow.
Except it didn’t.
Within minutes, a heart popped up on the screen. Someone had liked it.
Then a message:
“Is this still available? Will you ship to Seattle?”
Katherine blinked, mouth parting slightly. She turned toward her sleeping daughter and whispered, “Maybe we can do this, Nadia.”
It wasn’t a battle, or a flight for her life. But it was a beginning.
Cardboard boxes lined the walls now—some half-filled with carefully folded dresses, others sealed and stacked with handwritten labels. The living room had transformed into a tiny warehouse. Nadia sat nearby on a blanket, chewing thoughtfully on a wooden toy as Katherine crouched over a stack of manila envelopes, hands moving fast but careful.
Her phone buzzed again.
Depop Order: 1950s Polka Dot Dress — Sold.
Shipping address: Brooklyn, NY.
Katherine exhaled, not quite a smile but close. That was the fourth sale this week. She reached for the dress on the rack she’d assembled beside the window, ran her hands over the fabric to smooth it once more, and began wrapping it in brown paper and twine. She’d learned presentation mattered—even online.
Junie’s advice had been gold:
“Sell the feeling, not just the piece. Make them believe they’re buying a memory.”
So she added a thank-you note in each one. Just a sentence or two, handwritten in her careful script:
“Wore something like this once to a dance where the music felt like air. Hope this makes you feel beautiful.” – K.”
At first it felt silly. But buyers messaged back.
One wrote, “I cried when I opened this. It reminded me of my grandmother.”
Another, “I wore the blouse to my wedding rehearsal. Thank you for making me feel soft and strong.”
Each note felt like a thread binding her to something beyond survival. She wasn’t just selling vintage clothes. She was carving a place in this world, one stitched hem at a time.
A knock startled her. For a moment, her instincts kicked in—back pressed to the door, heart racing. Then she remembered: it was just the postal worker. Routine.
She opened it and handed him the newest batch. “You’re moving fast,” he said, raising a brow. “You opening a boutique or something?”
Katherine blinked. “Something like that.”
He nodded and tipped his cap. “Keep it up. Brooklyn loves a good comeback story.”
As she closed the door again, Nadia let out a tiny laugh—babbling something incomprehensible but bright. Katherine looked over, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to smile fully.
She scooped Nadia up and whispered, “We’re not just surviving anymore, are we?”
The child reached for her necklace—an old locket Katherine had kept hidden even in her worst days—and held it tightly.
Katherine kissed her forehead. “Not just surviving. We’re building.”