Elbow length gloves rise up on her arms, accentuating the string of pearls around her neck. Her dress was red, sold to her by a family newly poor because of tiny tear in the stitchery. It had been all that they had left. It cost her only a small coin. Now the family claimed they weren't who they were. That they never lived in that tall house by the beach. They claimed that it was empty, that it always had been. Now the dress belonged to her, and she could only pretend to be what they once had been. Privileged. She danced the way the young girl once danced, smiled at the young children in colorful masks the way the young girl once smiled. And across the city that young girl secretly lived on, no longer in a red ballroom gown, but rather in rags. The finger prints on the fabric belong to three girls: The heiress who lost all her wealth, the peasant who was lucky enough to save its red shine, and the thief who came in the middle of the night and flew it away, ripped it to shreds, to erase its memory from the world. But on those little pieces of fabric, those finger prints all look the same.