Diara stared at the old lady, feeling the delicate weight of the blue dress in her hands. The fabric was smooth, its texture rich against her fingers, and she knew, without a doubt, that this was no ordinary gown.
The intricate stitching, the way it shimmered faintly in the light—everything about it whispered luxury. She could feel her heart flutter with both gratitude and hesitation.
"I can't do that," Diara said softly, shaking her head as she looked up at the woman. "It's your dress, and I can tell from the texture that it's really expensive. You can't just give it to me."
The old woman's face softened even more, her eyes crinkling with a warmth that felt both kind and unyielding.
She gave Diara a gentle smile, the kind that spoke of wisdom and understanding far beyond words. Without another word, the woman leaned forward and, with an almost playful insistence, shoved the dress into Diara's bag.
