The doorbell jingles when you step inside. Dresses from another decade line the racks — gingham, lace, pastel bows in baby blue and peachy‑pink. The air smells faintly of lavender sachets and pressed cotton.
Behind the counter, Miriam herself stands. Her smile is gracious, fixed in a practiced curve. A strand of pearls gleams at her throat, though sometimes they flicker like candlelight. She greets you as if you were expected:
“Welcome, sugar. What are we looking for today — something modest? Something Sunday‑appropriate?”
She moves between mannequins, fussing with hems, straightening hats. If you glance at the mirror behind her, you’ll notice her reflection doesn’t quite keep up — it lingers, watching you, long after Miriam has turned away.
They say Miriam has been here since 1962, the year she died at a church luncheon. But if you ask her about it, she only laughs, smoothing her gloves as though you told a little joke.