Stillness in motion

It was a Tuesday—ordinary in every way.

No meetings.

No looming deadlines.

Just another quiet day at work.

I was in the design annex on the third floor, finalizing a sketch for the seasonal textile review—a coat with asymmetrical shoulders, one sleeve slightly longer than the other, stitched with a single line of silver thread that cut across like a scar. I called it I Am Not What You Threw Away.

It was the first time I’d ever named a design after a truth instead of an idea.

And when I looked at it, I didn’t see fashion.

I saw survival.

All that was left was to upload it to the digital archive on the sixth floor. A simple task—scan, save, submit. No rush. No urgency.

I gathered the sketch, straightened the edges, and made my way toward the east elevator bank—the same one Soren Bellandi used.

That had always struck me as strange. He never took the private lift reserved for executives, never demanded clearance or avoided people. He used the same elevator as everyone else, like a man who