Prologue

The late August sun slanted through the kitchen window of the Eiler house, casting gold over the Formica countertops and the new avocado-green refrigerator. Kate Eiler adjusted the Peter Pan collar of her dress, its high neckline itching at her throat, and smoothed a hand over the full, pleated skirt that fell just below her knees. It was a dress she’d worn to her high school graduation four years prior---a powder-blue cotton number with tiny white checks, its waist cinched by a fabric belt tied in a neat bow. Her mother had cooed over it that day: “So ladylike, Katie. You’ll never go wrong with a classic.”

Now, in 1961, as Kate set the last plate of lemon bars on the dining table, she smoothed the dress again, this time with a small, wry smile. She’d chosen it specifically for her mother’s visit---Esther Miller, a woman who still wore her own 50s wardrobe with unwavering pride: tailored suits with boxy jackets, dresses with nipped-in waists and hems that kissed the top of her stockings. Kate’s college years at State had taught her to love the freedom of capri pants, the crisp lines of a shift dress that hit mid-thigh, the way a simple turtleneck paired with a pleated skirt felt both modern and chic. But today, she’d dressed like the girl her mother remembered. Just for today, she thought. Just to make her happy.

Her husband, Henry, appeared in the doorway, his tie loosened, a beer in hand. “Your dad’s pulling up,” he said, nodding toward the front window. “Looks like they brought luggage.”

Kate’s stomach fluttered. It was the first time her parents had visited the house---a small, ranch-style home Henry had bought for them six months ago, after their wedding. She’d spent weeks decorating: a mint-green sofa, a coffee table with a mosaic tile top, a record player in the corner with a stack of Perry Como and Brenda Lee albums. Modern, she’d thought. Grown-up.

Her father, George, was already on the porch when she opened the door, his arms wrapped around a large, brass-bound trunk. Her mother, behind him, carried a Tupperware of leftover fried chicken. “Katie!” Esther called, leaning in to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “You look exactly like your senior portrait. That dress---why, I remember when you picked out the fabric! You said the checks reminded you of gingham curtains.”

Kate forced a laugh. “I did, didn’t I?”

Dinner was a success. Henry charmed her parents with stories of his job at the insurance office, and Kate’s mother fussed over the lemon bars, declaring them “almost as good as mine.” By the time the sun dipped below the maple tree in the front yard, George was yawning, and Esther was gathering her purse. “We’ll let you two have your evening,” George said, clapping Henry on the back. “But first---help me with this trunk, will you, Henry?”

Kate followed them to the porch, curious. The trunk was old, its leather scuffed, the brass corners dulled with age. “It’s for you, Katie,” her mother said, her voice soft. “We found it in the attic last week. All your things from your room---dresses, blouses, skirts. I had them dry-cleaned. Figured you might want them here, now that you’re a homemaker.”

Kate’s throat tightened. Homemaker. The word felt both warm and heavy, like a quilt she wasn’t sure she wanted to wrap around herself.

After her parents left, Henry kissed her temple. “I’ll let you unpack,” he said, heading to the living room to read the newspaper.

Alone, Kate knelt beside the trunk. The latches were stiff, but they gave with a creak. Inside, folded neatly, wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic, were her clothes---her old clothes. She lifted a dress, the plastic crinkling, and peeled it back.

The first was a shirtwaist dress she’d worn to church every Sunday in 1957. The fabric was a crisp, white cotton with tiny blue pinstripes, the kind that required ironing but never wrinkled. The collar was a small, rounded Peter Pan, edged with a thin blue ribbon that matched the pinstripes. The sleeves were short, puffed at the shoulders, and the waist---oh, the waist---was nipped in so tightly it made her ribs ache to remember. The skirt was full, gathered at the waist, falling in soft folds to mid-calf. “Practical for kneeling in the garden,” her mother had said when she’d bought it. “No one wants a dress that rides up when you’re weeding.”

Next was a sweater dress, a relic of 1958. It was a soft, oatmeal-colored wool, thick enough for fall, with long sleeves that tapered at the wrists. The neckline was high, almost a turtleneck, but the bodice was form-fitting, the skirt a simple A-line that hit just below the knee. A thin, brown leather belt was still looped through the waist, its buckle a small, tarnished brass star. Kate remembered wearing it to a football game with her boyfriend (not Henry) senior year, her legs cold in the November wind, but her mother had insisted it was “warm enough if you wear tights.”

The third dress was her “fancy” one, saved for dances or family dinners. It was a deep burgundy taffeta, the fabric stiff and rustling when she moved. The neckline was a boat neck, modest but elegant, and the sleeves were three-quarter length, tapering to a point at the wrists. The waist was cinched by a sash that tied in a bow at the back, and the skirt---oh, the skirt---was a full circle, requiring a crinoline underneath to hold its shape. She’d worn it to her college’s winter formal, paired with pearl earrings her grandmother had given her. “No one will take you seriously if you show too much leg,” her mother had warned when Kate had wanted to hem it shorter.

There were blouses, too: high-necked with tiny pearl buttons; cropped, boxy ones with Peter Pan collars; a few in pastel pink and yellow, all with long sleeves, all designed to be tucked into skirts that hit mid-calf.

Kate sat back on her heels, the dresses spilling around her. For a moment, she was 17 again, standing in her childhood bedroom, arguing with her mother about hemlines. “Mom, no one wears skirts this long anymore!” she’d protested. “It’s 1959! The world’s changing!”

Her mother had tsked. “Fashion comes and goes, Katie. But a lady’s modesty? That never goes out of style.”

Now, in 1961, Kate traced the edge of the burgundy dress’s boat neck. She thought of her closet here: a pair of black capris, a white button-down shirt she tied just below her ribs, a shift dress in bright yellow that hit mid-thigh. She thought of Henry, who’d never once told her what to wear, who’d just smiled when she’d come home from college with a pixie cut and a stack of Vogue magazines. “You look like you,” he’d said. “That’s all that matters.”

Slowly, she folded the dresses back into the trunk, tucking the plastic around them. She closed the lid, latched it, and stood, dusting off her hands. The trunk was heavy, but she managed to drag it to the hall, then up the narrow stairs to the attic. The attic was warm, dusty, filled with boxes labeled KATE’S BOOKS and HENRY’S COLLEGE STUFF. She set the trunk in the corner, next to a stack of old Life magazines, and stood back, wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek.

Downstairs, she could hear Henry flipping the TV to The Ed Sullivan Show. She smoothed her dress---her mother’s dress---one last time, then smiled. Tomorrow, she’d wear her yellow shift.

Tonight, though, she was home.

Chapter 1

The attic of the Eiler house smelled of dust and lemon polish when Everett Miller pushed open the hatch in 2026. Sunlight streamed through a small, cobwebbed window, illuminating the trunk he’d found the week prior---Kate’s trunk, the one his great-grandmother had shoved into the rafters 55 years ago, never to be opened again. Now, at 27, Everett was the house’s sole heir; his grandmother had passed six months ago, leaving behind a lifetime of belongings, most of which he’d sorted through. But this trunk... it felt different. Like a secret.

He dragged it to the center of the attic, the brass corners scraping the floorboards. The latches were stiff, but they gave with a creak, and the lid popped open, releasing a faint scent of mothballs and old fabric. Inside, the clothes were exactly as Kate had left them: folded neatly, wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic, preserved like time capsules.

Everett had heard stories about his grandmother’s “old-fashioned phase” from his mom---how Kate had worn those 50s dresses to please her mother, then boxed them up, never to be seen again. But as he lifted the first garment, a cream-colored sweater set with a high, ribbed neckline and three-quarter sleeves, he felt a pang of curiosity. What was she like, back then?

The sweater was soft, the wool still plush despite the decades. Underneath was a matching skirt: A-line, hitting mid-calf, with a narrow waistband and a single button at the hip. Next came a poodle skirt---black felt, its hem decorated with a stitched poodle in white thread, its tail curling around the waist. A blouse followed: powder-blue, short-sleeved, with a Peter Pan collar and tiny pearl buttons up the front. Then a cardigan, oatmeal-colored, with elbow patches and a V-neck that dipped just enough to show the blouse’s collar.

None of it worked.

Everett had read about the Medallion of Zulu in a journal---a small, copper disk etched with Zulu symbols. “Transforms the wearer into the last person to don the garment,” the note had said. “Touch medallion to skin and fabric. Duration depends on contact time.” He’d tested it on a pair of his own jeans first (nothing), then a vintage band tee (still nothing). But these clothes---Kate’s clothes---were different. They held history.

He tried the sweater set first. The medallion, warm from his pocket, pressed against the plastic-wrapped wool. He held it there, then pressed his bare wrist to the fabric. Nothing. The poodle skirt: same. The blouse, the cardigan---each time, the medallion stayed cool, the clothes inert.

Maybe they were dry-cleaned, he thought. The note had mentioned the clothing needed to retain the “essence” of the wearer. Dry cleaning, he guessed, stripped that away.

He dug deeper, past the blouses and skirts, to a layer of lingerie. Longline bras---stiff, white cotton with boning, the cups pointed and unyielding. Full-coverage bullet bras, their conical shape designed to point upward, not flatter. A waist cincher, black satin with laces up the back, and a girdle, its elastic panels reinforced with boning. Underneath, a stack of white cotton panties, full-cut, high-cut, not the skimpy thongs of his era. All of it was pristine, folded in plastic, never worn by Kate.

“New,” he muttered. His grandmother had mentioned her mother bought her the trunk’s contents---“all the apparel she’d left purposefully in her former room.” So these were Esther’s choices, not Kate’s. No wonder the medallion didn’t react.

Next came accessories: gloves, white kid leather with tiny buttons at the wrist; a silk scarf, printed with pink roses; a felt hat with a narrow brim. Shoes, too---black pumps with a two-inch heel, their toes pointed, the soles barely scuffed. Everett tried each, pressing the medallion to the fabric, then his skin. Nothing.

At the bottom of the trunk, he found belts. Dozens of them: thin leather, wide elastic, some with buckles shaped like leaves or stars. They’d been removed before dry cleaning, he realized---tucked into a corner, folded, not wrapped in plastic. He picked one up: a brown leather belt, its buckle a small, tarnished brass star. The leather was soft, worn at the holes where it had been cinched. This one, he thought. This was hers.

He sat cross-legged on the attic floor, the belt in one hand, the medallion in the other. His heart raced. What if it works? He’d seen the note’s warning: “Can transform only a part... or a complete transformation if held longer.” He didn’t want to change too much. Just... enough to feel close to her.

He pressed the medallion to the belt, then to his bare stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. At first, nothing. Then, a warmth---gentle, spreading. His breath hitched. The belt, still in his hand, felt lighter, as if it were... adjusting.

Slowly, his waist began to cinch. Not painfully, but like a hand gently squeezing. His stomach softened, the muscle he’d built in the gym yielding to a slimmer line. He looked down, watching his shirt---a tight-fitting black tee---loosen around his middle, then tighten again, as if the fabric itself were conforming to a new shape. His skin, where the belt touched, felt smoother, softer, like the skin of someone who’d never known calluses or rough work.

“Whoa,” he whispered. He pulled the medallion away, breaking contact. The warmth faded, but the change remained: his waist was smaller, his stomach softer, the belt now loose where it had been snug. He held it up, comparing it to his original size. Six inches smaller.

He stared at the belt, then at his hands. They looked the same---broad palms, short fingers, a small scar on the knuckle from a childhood bike crash. But his torso... it was different. Not unrecognizable, but altered. Like a version of himself that existed in another time.

He thought of the photos he’d seen: Kate at 21, in her wedding dress (a 50s lace number with a high neck and long sleeves), her waist tiny, her posture straight. This is how she looked, he realized. Before she became “Grandma Kate,” with her silver hair and cardigans.

He picked up the belt again, turning it over. The leather was warm now, as if it held her memory. He wondered what else he could learn---if he held the medallion longer, would he see her face? Her voice? Or just... feel her?

For now, though, he was content. He looped the belt around his waist, buckling it at the new, smaller hole. It fit.

Downstairs, his phone buzzed---a text from his mom: “Don’t forget, we’re cleaning out the garage tomorrow. Love you.”

He smiled, glancing at the trunk. There were more belts, more clothes, more secrets. And the medallion... it was just getting started.

Chapter 2

Everett’s pulse quickened as he held the belt once more, its brass buckle warm from his earlier experiment. The medallion hummed faintly in his palm---a vibration he hadn’t noticed before. Focus, he told himself. Hips. Hips and... His cheeks flushed, but curiosity overrode embarrassment. Butt.

He pressed the medallion to the belt again, then to his bare hip, just below the waistband of his now-loose jeans. The warmth returned, deeper this time, radiating outward like a slow tide. His breath hitched as his hips began to shift---not painfully, but with the inexorable pressure of dough rising. His thighs, once narrow and athletic, softened at the edges. His butt, firm from years of cycling, rounded subtly, filling out the seat of his jeans until the denim strained. A curious numbness prickled his groin, the contours of his body redistributing, flattening at the front as his pelvis widened.