ASHES OF HER NAME: THE RETURN OF A FASHION ICON

Zaria's I used to believe a dream died only when you stopped chasing it. Turns out, sometimes the world catches up to you, grabs it by the throat, and strangles it while you watch. That morning, I was wiping down the last table at Brew & Bloom, the tiny café tucked between a bookstore and a failing antique shop in Camden. I’d worked there for eight months. It wasn't fulfilling, but the routine was something I could count on until it wasn't. "Zaria," Mr. Collins called from the back, his voice low and laced with something I didn’t like. "Can I see you for a sec?" I knew. You feel these things before they happen. The tiny office was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that buzzed like an anxious bee. He didn’t meet my eyes. “We’re letting some people go.” Some people. Meaning me. I was always the 'temporary' one. The girl with a fashion sketchbook tucked into her apron pocket. A misplaced dreamer in the world of burnt coffee and chipped porcelain. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re talented, Zaria. You’ll find something else.” Sure. Something else. Something with zero job security, even less pay, and maybe, if I was lucky, an ounce of dignity. I walked out of that café with my last £20, stolen cubes of sugar, and a train ticket to Edinburgh. My mom’s health had taken a sharp decline in late October. She had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. The doctors in London had thrown around big words that boiled down to we can’t help her here. The only hope was an experimental treatment program in Scotland. Something about cleaner air, less stress, and a small clinic that believed in healing the whole body, and not just the symptoms. I didn’t hesitate. Everything I owned fit into one large suitcase. I left my rented room with the chipped windowpane and peeling paint. I left behind the memories that gave us a facade of comfort. Scotland greeted me with cold wind and gray skies, but the silence was different. It wasn’t the kind that felt empty. It was still, like a blank canvas. My mother was admitted to the Ardent Hills Clinic just outside Edinburgh. It was small, intimate, and far too expensive. I stayed with a distant cousin, Leah for the first two weeks, who always smelled like peppermint and wore tweed like it was armor. We weren’t close, but she gave me a bed and a warm meal most nights. Every morning, I visited the clinic. I’d sit beside my mom, braid her hair, read aloud when she could stay awake. On the good days, she smiled. On the bad ones, she didn't know who I was. I needed something. A job. A lifeline. Something to remind me I was more than just grief wrapped in skin. I found Vettores by accident. I was scrolling absentmindedly through design forums one sleepless night. It was one of Scotland’s fastest-rising agencies. Sharp, modern, painfully exclusive. They didn’t just create fashion. They dictated it. They were hosting a winter internship for three upcoming designers. Three months. Three positions. Thousands of applicants. It was a chance I was unwilling to brush past me. So I applied. I stitched together a digital portfolio, scanned old sketches, included my best designs from school. Everything I had ever made that felt like me. I rewrote the application letter three times, deleting each draft in frustration. Finally, with a deep breath, I clicked submit, my hands shaking with anticipation. Then I waited. For ten days, I kept refreshing my inbox like my life depended on it. During the day, I visited the clinic. At night, I watched the wind dance outside Leah’s window and wondered if I was just too late for my mom, for my dream, for everything. And then it came. Subject: Vettores Internship – Offer Letter I screamed. I cried. I laughed and startled Leah so badly she dropped her tea. I called the clinic first. Told my mother even though she was sleeping. I hoped she heard me anyway. The internship was unpaid, of course. But Vettores promised exposure, access, and the kind of industry contacts that could rewrite my entire story. I didn’t care about the fine print. I just needed in. Day one at the Vettores building felt like stepping into the future. Glass walls, polished floors, and staff dressed like walking Vogue covers. I wore a black turtleneck, wide-legged trousers I’d tailored myself, and a gold pin shaped like a hummingbird, my mother’s favorite. There were eight of us shortlisted for three spots. They gave us one day to impress. We were ushered into an atelier and given a task: design a capsule piece inspired by “emergence.” One day. One sketch. No guidance. No second chances. My pencils flew across the paper, fueled by desperation. I thought of my mother's spirit, unbroken despite her failing body. My father's laughter and final design flashed in my mind. And in every line, I saw my own journey, lost, then rising, emerging stronger. My design was a structured coat, high-collared, winged shoulders and asymmetrical hems, gold silk bursting through black like a cocoon torn open. When they called my name, announcing I was one of the chosen three, I felt like I could finally breathe. The weeks that followed were brutal in the best way. We worked twelve-hour days, assisting designers, running fabric tests, attending fittings. My feet hurt constantly. My fingers were raw but I loved it. God, I loved it. Ivanna, one of the lead creative directors, wore five-inch heels and ambition like armor. Sharp-eyed, high-cheekbones, always in five-inch heels. She was also the kind of woman who could smell fear and feed on it. At first, she praised my work. “Fresh. Raw. Untouched by the industry's decay,” she’d said once, flipping through my sketchbook. She started asking to see more of my designs. I was flattered. Stupidly so. She offered “guidance,” told me she saw potential. I trusted her. Three weeks in, she asked if I could submit a small design portfolio for “internal documentation.” I didn’t hesitate. And just like that, everything changed.