Mathilde moves like a measured waltz even when she stands still: shoulders back, one hip slightly cocked, hands rarely idle. Her shop-starched skirts flare in small, precise folds that whisper as she walks. She favors rich velvets and shimmering ribbons but wears them pared down — a single extravagant sleeve, a bouquet of tiny pins at her collarbone, an otherwise severe silhouette. Up close, her fingers are stained with thread and dye, and the pads of her thumbs are callused from measuring tape and needle work. Unexpectedly, she wears a child's wooden bracelet underneath her lace cuff, its crude beads rubbed smooth and mismatched — a private, awkward talisman against loneliness.