The garment was extremely lightweight, folding into nothing more than a handful when stacked, yet when shaken out, it unfurled like a wisp of mist. At first, she had merely pursed her lips in laughter, but soon her cheeks flushed red, and she stuffed the thing deep into the wardrobe.  

"How could anyone wear this out?" she said.  

 

"It wasn’t meant to be worn out," he replied.  

 

And so the garment came to hang on the innermost hook of the wardrobe, neighbored by a few out-of-season winter coats, swaying faintly with the rustle of clothes whenever the door was opened. Whenever she caught sight of it, she would recall the clear, fine weather of the day it was bought, and the flash of understanding in the shop assistant’s eyes.  

 

A month later, on an otherwise ordinary night, he returned home late from work to find the bedroom light still on. Pushing the door open, he saw her reclining against the headboard, reading a book, draped in one of his old shirts. When she noticed him enter, she closed the book but said nothing, only undoing the top two buttons of the shirt.  

 

A sliver of lace peeked out from the collar.  

Suddenly, his throat felt tight. That forgotten garment had long been worn beneath his shirt, hidden against her skin like a belated love letter, its seal finally broken at this moment.  

 

She stepped off the bed, bare feet against the floor, the hem of the shirt swaying faintly with each step. He noticed how her earlobes burned red, how her fingers trembled slightly, yet still she walked up to him and lifted her face.  

 

"Do I look nice?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.  

 

He reached out and touched a strand of her hair, finding it damp, carrying the lingering moisture of a recent bath. Only then did he realize she had prepared for this long in advance, as though arranging a secret ceremony.  

Outside, a car passed by, its headlights streaking through the curtains, casting fleeting shadows on the wall. Standing in that transient glow, they suddenly both laughed. In the end, the garment had fulfilled its purpose—not as mere fabric, but as a key, gently turning the lock of their daily lives, allowing a long-dormant intimacy to flow freely once more.  

 

After that, the garment began appearing at unexpected moments: tucked into the hidden layers of luggage for a business trip, hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door, or peeking out from beneath the blankets at dawn. It became a cipher, a reminder that even in the most ordinary days, they could still reserve for each other a secret kind of anticipation.