She took a bus across town to a boutique tucked between a bakery and a vintage bookshop. The air there smelled of sandalwood, not antiseptic. This was a place where the polish didn't just have names; it had personalities. She bypassed the standard reds and gravitated toward a display of indie brands—bottles filled with holographic glitters that looked like trapped nebulae and "multichromes" that shifted from emerald to violet as she tilted them in the light.
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"That one reacts to your body heat," the shopkeeper whispered, pointing to a moody charcoal grey. "It turns ghostly white when you’re warm." She took a bus across town to a