Griffin stood in the quiet of his living room, the silence heavy with absence. It had been two weeks since the accident, since his three-year-old daughter, Rachel, had slipped from his grasp and darted into the street, her laughter cut short by the screech of tires. The memory haunted him-her tiny hand pulling free, her bright pink sneakers flashing as she ran, oblivious to the danger. He could still see her twirling in her favorite yellow dress, the one with the daisy print, giggling as she chased a butterfly. Now, the house was a museum of her absence, every corner holding a ghost of her joy.

The grief was a weight he couldn’t shake. It clung to him, a shadow that darkened every step. Therapy hadn’t helped; the support groups only made him feel more alone. Friends tried to reach him, but their words felt hollow, unable to bridge the chasm Rachel’s death had carved in his heart. He needed something tangible, something to hold onto, something to bring her back, even if just in fragments.

One gray morning, Griffin found himself outside a specialty store on the edge of town. The shop was known for custom clothing, catering to niche requests with no questions asked. He’d heard about it from a coworker years ago, a passing comment about their ability to replicate any style, any size. The idea had taken root in his mind days ago, blooming into a quiet obsession. If he could surround himself with Rachel’s things-her style, her colors-maybe he could feel her again.

Inside, the store smelled of fresh fabric and lavender. Racks of children’s clothing lined the walls, bursts of color that reminded him of Rachel’s wardrobe. He ran his fingers over a rack of tiny blouses, their soft cotton stirring memories of dressing her for daycare. The shopkeeper, an older woman with kind eyes, approached him. “Looking for something special?” she asked.

Griffin hesitated, his voice low. “I need… clothes like my daughter used to wear. But in my size. Adult size.”

The woman didn’t blink. She nodded, as if this were the most ordinary request. “Tell me about her style,” she said, pulling out a notebook.

He described Rachel’s favorites: the yellow daisy dress, the purple leggings with star patterns, the ruffled blouses she’d twirl in, the rompers she wore to the park. He spoke of her sparkly pink sneakers, her polka-dot tights, the way she’d insist on wearing mismatched socks because “they’re happier that way.” His voice cracked as he added, “She loved bright colors. Things that made her feel like a princess.”

The shopkeeper scribbled notes, then led him to a catalog of fabrics and patterns. Together, they designed adult-sized versions of Rachel’s wardrobe. Griffin pored over every detail, selecting shades that matched his memories-bubblegum pink, sunflower yellow, teal with glittery threads. He ordered blouses with puffed sleeves, skirts that flared like hers, and leggings with whimsical prints. He even requested diapers and shoes in his size, styled for a three-year-old girl-soft pastels, velcro straps, tiny bows. The shopkeeper promised to source everything, no matter how unusual.

Days turned into weeks, and Griffin returned to the store repeatedly, each visit a pilgrimage. He’d try on the clothes in the fitting room, marveling at how the tailors had scaled up Rachel’s style so perfectly. The yellow daisy dress, now in his size, swished against his knees. The star-patterned leggings hugged his legs, their familiar design a bittersweet comfort. He bought more than he needed-rompers, tights, even a tiara like the one Rachel wore for her third birthday. Each purchase lightened the weight in his chest, as if he were stitching her presence back into his life.

At home, Griffin would lay the clothes out on Rachel’s bed, arranging them as if she might walk in and choose an outfit. He’d slip into a blouse or a pair of tights, staring at himself in the mirror. The reflection was strange, an adult in a child’s world, but it felt right. The colors, the patterns-they were hers. Wearing them, he could almost hear her giggle, feel her tiny arms around his neck. He’d sit in her room, surrounded by her stuffed animals, and close his eyes, imagining her beside him.

The more he bought, the better he felt. Each new piece was a connection, a way to keep Rachel close. He didn’t care about the cost or the oddity of it. The clothes were a lifeline, pulling him from the abyss of his grief. He’d walk through the house in a pink romper, humming the lullaby he used to sing her, and for a moment, the pain would soften. It wasn’t about becoming her-it was about holding onto her, wrapping himself in the love they’d shared.

One evening, as he sat in Rachel’s rocking chair wearing her favorite daisy dress, Griffin smiled for the first time in weeks. The fabric was soft against his skin, the pattern vibrant even in the dim light. He could almost see her twirling in front of him, her laughter filling the room. “Look, Daddy, we match,” he whispered to the empty air.

And for that moment, they did.

---

The Rachel's room still smelled like her. Griffin would sit in the doorway, staring at the pastel walls, the stuffed animals arranged just so on the shelves, the tiny overalls folded in the dresser. Three weeks since the funeral, and the silence in Rachel’s room had become a living thing-a third parent, a shadow, a judge.

He began buying the clothes as a joke, at first. A sundress, size L adult. A velvety hair bow. “For keepsakes,” he told Cheryl, who nodded too quickly, her eyes glassy. But the keepsakes piled up in his closet: tights with grippy soles, a lace-trimmed cami, footed pajamas with ducks. On the fourth week, he started swapping. Rachel’s tiny overalls went into a donation box; his own new clothes took their place, folded just as she’d left them.

Cheryl didn’t notice. She’d taken to sleeping downstairs, on the couch, where the grief couldn’t pin her to their bed. They’d agreed weeks ago-six weeks, then the room would be painted over. A fresh start. Griffin had nodded, mute. But the date loomed, and the room still hummed with her.

On the eve of the six-week mark, he waited until Cheryl left for her night shift at the hospital. The syringe felt cold in his palm, the compound bitter when he injected it into his thigh. The tape player whirred to life: “You are Rachel. You are three. You are a girl. You think boys are stupid. You enjoy sucking your thumb. You hate the potty. You love strawberry yogurt and your bear is named Mr. Cuddles…” He repeated the phrases aloud, voice high and wavering, as the drug blurred the edges of the room.

The sundress fit snugly over his broad frame. The bow slid into his thinning hair. Diapers-pulled tight, crinkling. When he looked in the mirror, a flicker of Rachel’s face overlapped his own.

He played in the room as she would. Poured imaginary tea into plastic cups. Stacked blocks until they toppled. Sang off-key to the lullabies she’d loved. When the front door clicked open, he didn’t startle.

“Rachel?” Cheryl’s voice, thin.

He turned, grinning gap-toothed, the way Rachel had. “Mommy! Look what I built!” A tower of blocks wobbled in his hands.

Cheryl stood frozen, her scrub uniform stained with coffee. The room-her daughter’s room, now a dollhouse scaled for a grown man-spun around her. Griffin’s eyes were wide, unblinking, his voice a child’s lilt. No trace of the man who’d held her at 3 a.m. last month, both of them sobbing into the dark.

“Griff?” she whispered.

He tilted his head, confused. “Mommy, are we having pancakes?”

The compound throbbed in his veins. The tape looped on, muffled through the floorboards. “…you are Rachel. You are three…”

Cheryl sank to her knees. The fresh paint would wait.

---

Cheryl sat stiffly in the beige leather chair opposite Dr. Rooker’s desk, her hands knotted in her lap, her voice trembling as she spoke.

“It started a few days ago,” she said, staring past the framed certificates on the wall. “I’d just gotten home from work and found Griffin… in Rachel’s room. He was playing with her dolls. He was wearing one of her dresses-he must’ve pulled it out from the keepsake box in the closet. When I asked what he was doing, he smiled at me and said, ‘Mommy, I’m Rachel now.’”

Dr. Rooker nodded silently, his pen unmoving on the notepad. He had learned to listen before writing anything.

“I thought it was a breakdown, shock, something temporary. But it’s gotten worse. He doesn’t answer to ‘Griffin’ anymore. He cries when I call him that. He wants to be spoken to like he’s a toddler. He... he wets himself if he doesn’t have a diaper on. I-I don’t know what to do.”

She turned to the side where Griffin sat quietly on the play rug by the window, poking plastic animals into a toy barn. His adult-sized jeans and sweater looked comically out of place against his posture and motions. He wore his hair in uneven pigtails, which Cheryl had tied that morning with pink ribbons at his request.

“I dressed him in adult clothes because I didn’t know what else to do,” Cheryl added, voice cracking. “But he hates them. And he doesn’t talk like Griffin anymore. He speaks like Rachel used to. The way she babbled and mispronounced things. He even lisps sometimes.”

Dr. Rooker leaned forward slightly and nodded. “May I speak with... Rachel alone?”

Cheryl hesitated. “Will you be able to help him?”

“I’ll do my best,” the doctor replied.

---

Griffin-or Rachel-looked up as Cheryl left the room, her expression clouded with worry. Dr. Rooker moved his chair a little closer to the small table where Rachel sat, pretending to feed a stuffed bunny.