LYRA‘S POV
The small concrete living room of our apartment in the valley flats felt entirely different that evening. The heavy scent of industrial cleaner from the low docks clung to my father’s skin, but his shoulders were perfectly square, his eyes holding a quiet, triumphant light that I hadn't seen since the semester began.
Resting on the worn fabric of our secondhand sofa was a garment bag.
"Open it, Lyra," my mom whispered, her hands clasped tightly against her chest, her face radiant with anticipation.
I carefully pulled the zipper down. The fabric that spilled out into my hands wasn't the cheap, scratchy polyester typical of the valley retail stalls. It was a deep, shimmering midnight blue silk that caught the dim light of our living room lamp and turned it into liquid silver.
