POV: Amelia
The studio looked exactly the way I’d left it.
That was the strange part.
I stood in the doorway a second longer than I needed to, coffee in hand, trying to name what felt off. Nothing was moved.
The sketchbox sat on the corner of the desk where I always left it. The fabric swatches were still pinned to the board in the order I’d arranged them. Everything matched my memory of the room almost exactly.
Almost.
I told myself it was exhaustion. I’d been up too late with the sketchbox the night before, my sense of the room probably wasn’t as reliable as I wanted to believe.
I sat down at the desk and made myself stop looking for something wrong and start doing the work I’d actually come in to do.
Diane wanted three samples. That meant three finished garments, not sketches,
