Her wardrobe became a puzzle she had to solve daily. Could she wear the coat sleeves as pant legs? Could the handbag strap become a belt?

The puffer coats muffled the sound of existential dread. The Margiela blazer offered a shoulder to cry on. She started talking to her loafers. They listened.

“My identity,” she said flatly. “It’s not working for me anymore. I tried styling it differently. Therapy. A bang. A silent retreat in Big Sur. Nothing stuck.”

They weren’t just shoes. They were proof. Proof she had taste. Proof she had restraint. Proof that she could afford to suffer.

Outside a late-night florist, she stops to smell something she can’t name. Behind her, the shop owner steps out to sweep and pauses, looking down. “Goat tracks?” he asks.