Rosa brought the shirt close to her face. She uncapped a lipstick, leaned forward, and smeared it gently on the collar—almost like a kiss. Then, as if overcome by something, she hugged the shirt to her chest. Clara’s skin prickled. Marc’s mouth opened, but no words came.
“What the…?” he started, voice low. Clara didn’t respond. She couldn’t. They kept watching as Rosa folded the shirt again, neatly, and placed it at the bottom of the stack. Then she composed herself and exited the room like nothing had happened. The footage was timestamped. That same morning.