Real beauty doesn’t shout. It flickers, then vanishes.

And yet, it stays.

It stays because someone saw it. Because someone paused. Because someone had the good taste — and the good sense — to recognize something worth admiring.

The grace we publish, always feminine, was never made to last. It lasts because we hold it. It becomes timeless because we refuse to let it go.

That’s our contradiction. And our conviction.