In her house of silence, in Paris, Chitose Abe opened a window in time. Spring stepped In, barefoot, holding in its hands needles of air and shreds of cotton.

The garments began to breathe. The jeans borrowed the tenderness of the wind, the t-shirts learned the grammar of clouds. A tank top, a crumpled prayer, covered itself with jet-black dreams: the night had fallen asleep upon its shoulder.

In front, wisdom  calm, almost still behind, the fireworks of dreams. The jackets danced, leaping into the sky, their shoulders brushed the stars, their hanging threads became constellations stitched to the moon.

The dresses, brief as vows of dawn, blended the firmness of metal with the softness of breath. Naomi passed by a lightning silhouette, a star carrying her own firmament.

And everything turned, reversed, reinvented itself: the man’s blazer became a woman’s promise, the trousers turned to light. Cotton and cashmere embraced, the tailored suit, weary of order, finally breathed.

The sleeves took flight summer birds, beating their wings in a sky sewn with blue.
Asymmetry laughed, walked askew, stumbled and was reborn beauty in imbalance,
miracle of the false step that becomes a dance.

Then the garment began to dream. The body became a house, the thread became a word, and the stitch, a prayer. Within the word home, Abe hid a running heart a home run crossing the fields of sleep, toward the land of starry fabrics, where spring begins again, eternally.

FM