The hollow drip of the shower. The ever-present smell of cleaning solution; underneath it, faint, mildew mixed with the dull tang of sweat-soaked material.

Ignoring her surroundings, she takes the dress carefully off the hanger and holds it to her face. Although her mother has been dead for years, she can still smell lavender and ice as she breathes in, and there is a sting behind her closed lids.

“Mama,” she whispers.

Carefully she slips the thin material down over her unitard. She looks in the mirror, shakes her blonde curls, wipes the tears away.

For you, Mama.