Every evening after work, I walked past the boutique on Main Street — not because I could afford the dresses, but because I dreamed of making them. I wasn’t a designer; I was just a cashier in a black polo with calloused hands and a sketchbook full of napkin drawings. The mannequins in the window didn’t just wear gowns — they wore everything I wanted: elegance, purpose, possibility. The only thing I had that felt mysterious was a small brass key I’d worn since I was a baby — no origin, no story. Just something left with me when I was abandoned at a hospital. One night,

my friend Nancy saw it and froze. “That looks like a ceremonial key from Hawthorne Savings,” she said. “It might open a deposit box.” Skeptical but curious, we went to the bank. My heart pounded. I gave them the key… and the security answer that somehow felt right: “June.” My name. To my shock, it worked. They led me to a small room, where they handed me an old envelope addressed in careful handwriting — to me. Inside was a letter from my birth mother. She hadn’t abandoned me. She had died of cancer just days after I was born and had left behind everything she could — her savings,