Threads of Truth

A Transgender Coming of Age Romance

From the Harmony Aspirant Universe

Chapter 13: Phoenix Rising

By Ariel Montine Strickland

How will Rose, Ada, Julian plan to resurrect the shop stronger than ever and Kiki learn the lesson behind restoring and wearing Dr. Justina Ford's gown?

Copyright 2025 by Ariel Montine Strickland.
All Rights Reserved.

Author's Note:

This book, in it's entirety, is available on my Patreon. BCTS will get weekly postings on Sundays to complete it here. Patreon Free Members can read my new complete book by chapters, Things We Do for Love

The morning after the sanctuary's forced closure dawned with an eerie quiet that seemed to settle over the vintage dress shop like dust on forgotten memories. Julian arrived to find the space transformed yet again—not by renovation or preparation this time, but by the stark reality of defeat and the urgent need to salvage what remained of fifteen years of compassionate work.

Rose sat in her chair behind the counter, wearing a simple 1940s dress in muted gray that seemed to reflect the somber mood. Her silver hair was pinned with less precision than usual, and Julian noticed the way she held herself—carefully, as if conserving energy for the battles that lay ahead. The forced closure had taken a visible toll, but her eyes still held the strategic spark he'd learned to recognize when she was planning something significant.

"Forty-three cats," Ada announced without preamble, consulting a clipboard with the efficiency of someone who had spent decades managing crises. She wore practical clothes and moved with the determined energy of someone who refused to let despair interfere with necessary action. "We have seventy-two hours to find homes, or they go to the city shelter system."

Kiki emerged from the basement carrying a thick folder of adoption records and medical files, her face showing the strain of sleepless hours spent organizing documentation. She wore jeans and a vintage blouse, but Julian noticed the way she moved with newfound authority—no longer questioning her capabilities, but embracing the responsibility Rose had been preparing her to carry.

"I've contacted every rescue organization within a hundred miles," Kiki reported, setting the folder on the counter with careful precision. "Most are at capacity, but several have agreed to take small numbers if we can arrange transportation."

Julian felt his heart clench at the clinical language being used to describe creatures who had been loved and cared for as individuals. "What about the long-term residents? The ones who aren't adoptable?"

Rose's expression grew more serious. "That's where we need to be strategic. Harold's victory was comprehensive, but it wasn't complete. The city council ruling still stands—we have six months to achieve compliance. The sanctuary closure was based on fire safety violations, not the fundamental right to operate."

Ada pulled out a set of architectural drawings that Julian recognized from their renovation planning. "Robert Cooper believes we can address the fire marshal's concerns within thirty days if we focus exclusively on safety modifications rather than the full upgrade we originally planned."

Kiki looked up from her adoption coordination work with obvious hope. "You mean we could reopen?"

"In theory," Rose replied carefully. "But it would require finding temporary housing for all forty-three cats, completing emergency safety modifications, and passing a new inspection—all while defending against Harold's ongoing campaign and the state licensing investigation."

Julian felt the weight of interconnected challenges settling on his shoulders, but also a clarity of purpose that had been missing from his purely academic pursuits. "What do we need to do first?"

Rose moved to her filing cabinet, pulling out a leather-bound address book that Julian had seen her consult during previous crises. "We mobilize every relationship we've built over the past fifteen years. The cats need homes—temporary or permanent—and we need them placed by people who understand our standards of care."

As the morning progressed, Julian found himself coordinating a complex logistics operation that required all the project management skills he'd developed in his academic career. Phone calls were made, transportation arranged, and careful matches negotiated between cats and potential foster families throughout the Denver metropolitan area.

"Mrs. Patterson can take three of the senior cats," Kiki announced, checking names off her list with obvious relief. "She's fostered for us before and understands their medical needs."

Ada consulted her volunteer coordination materials. "The Morrison family wants to foster the mother cat with kittens. They're experienced with neonatal care and have the space for a nursing mother."

Julian watched the careful choreography of emergency placement with growing admiration for the network Rose had built. Every phone call revealed another relationship, another person willing to step forward when the sanctuary's mission was threatened.

"There's something else we need to discuss," Rose said, her tone becoming more serious. "My health situation has accelerated beyond what I initially disclosed. The stress of Harold's campaign has taken a toll that can't be ignored."

The admission hung in the air like a physical presence, forcing everyone to confront what they had been trying to avoid acknowledging. Julian felt his protective instincts flare as he saw the vulnerability in Rose's eyes, the way she was finally admitting what her careful movements and increasing fatigue had been suggesting for weeks.

"How serious?" Kiki asked quietly, her voice carrying a mixture of concern and barely contained fear.

Rose's smile was gentle but honest. "Serious enough that we need to accelerate the ownership transfer we've been planning. The paperwork is ready, and my attorney believes we can complete the transition within two weeks."

Julian felt the implications settling around them like pieces of a complex puzzle. Rose's declining health, the sanctuary's closure, Harold's ongoing campaign, and the state licensing investigation—all of these challenges were converging at a moment when leadership transition was becoming unavoidable.

"But I'm not ready," Kiki protested, her newfound confidence wavering under the weight of such comprehensive responsibility. "The business, the cats, the legal challenges—it's overwhelming."

Rose reached over and squeezed Kiki's hand with obvious affection. "You're more ready than you realize. The past months have been preparing you for exactly this moment. You understand the restoration work, you've learned the advocacy skills, and you've demonstrated the compassion necessary to continue this mission."

Ada nodded approvingly. "And you won't be doing it alone. Julian's documentation skills, my volunteer coordination experience, and Rose's ongoing guidance—we're a team that can handle whatever Harold throws at us."

As the afternoon progressed, Julian found himself increasingly energized by the collaborative effort to preserve something precious under impossible circumstances. The museum documentation project that had originally brought him to Rose's shop seemed secondary now to the larger mission of protecting a legacy of compassionate service.

"The irony," Rose said as they prepared comprehensive documentation for the ownership transfer, "is that Harold's attack may have forced us to become stronger and more resilient than we were before."

Kiki gathered her adoption coordination materials with renewed determination. "We're not just saving cats—we're proving that communities can create their own solutions when institutions fail them."

Julian felt the truth of her words resonating through everything they'd built together. "And we're demonstrating that mentorship and dedication can compete with bureaucratic credentials when it comes to preserving what matters."

Rose studied Kiki across the shop, watching her friend meticulously check inventory with the focused precision of a surgeon examining a patient. The afternoon light caught the worry lines that had deepened around Kiki's eyes over the past few weeks as the shop's financial troubles mounted.

"You know what you need to do," Rose said suddenly, setting down her tablet and walking toward the back room where Dr. Ford's midnight blue georgette hung in protective muslin.

Kiki looked up from her clipboard. "Pay the rent? Find three more customers? Perform miracles?"

"All of the above." Rose disappeared into the restoration room and emerged holding the dress reverently in both arms, the silk georgette catching the light like captured starlight. "But first, you need to remember who you are."

The beadwork shimmered as Rose moved—silver and crystal Art Deco patterns that traced geometric lines across the bodice like a constellation map. Even on the hanger, the dress emanated power, its dropped waist and graceful lines speaking of revolution and possibility.

"Rose, what are you—"

"Dr. Justina Ford delivered seven thousand babies in this city," Rose interrupted, her voice thick with emotion. "Seven thousand. She was Denver's first female doctor, Colorado's first African American woman physician, and she practiced for fifty years when the world told her she couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't succeed."

Rose's hands trembled slightly as she held the dress higher. "And you know what she wore to the Medical Association dinner in 1920? This. This gorgeous declaration that she belonged in every room she entered."

Kiki's breath caught as she took in the dress fully—the way the midnight blue silk seemed to hold depth and mystery, how the crystal beading caught every nuance of light, the elegant three-quarter sleeves that would allow complete freedom of movement. The hemline that had scandalized conservative Denver society with its mid-calf length now seemed perfectly proportioned for a woman who needed to move through the world with purpose.

"She couldn't wear it," Kiki whispered, her fingers unconsciously reaching toward the silk chiffon draping at the neckline before pulling back.

"She could. She did. And so can you." Rose's voice cracked with fierce tenderness. "Kiki, you've been doctoring this shop back to health for months. You've diagnosed its problems, prescribed solutions, fought for its life. You've been Dr. Ford all along—you just haven't put on her dress."

The afternoon light shifted, and suddenly the beadwork blazed like armor, each geometric pattern declaring its wearer's right to exist, to thrive, to heal. The narrow silhouette seemed to straighten with invisible strength, the godets in the skirt whispering promises of graceful movement through any challenge.

"I want the customers to see her," Rose continued, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "I want them to see Dr. Ford in you, to understand that this shop isn't just selling vintage clothes—it's preserving the stories of women who changed everything. And I want you to feel what she felt when she put this on: that you belong exactly where you are, doing exactly what you're doing."

Kiki's own eyes filled as she stared at the dress, seeing past the restoration work to the woman who had worn it—a pioneer who had claimed her space in the world one patient, one delivery, one impossible day at a time. The coordinating beaded headband caught her eye, its simple elegance speaking of practicality married to beauty, function wedded to art.

"She would have fought for this shop," Kiki said softly, understanding flooding her voice. "Wouldn't she?"

"With everything she had," Rose confirmed, holding the dress toward her friend like an offering, like a prayer, like a promise. "Just like you are."

Twenty minutes later, Kiki emerged from the dressing room transformed. The midnight blue georgette flowed around her like liquid starlight, the dropped waist creating an elegant line that spoke of both femininity and power. The crystal and silver beadwork caught the shop's warm lighting, each Art Deco pattern gleaming against the silk like captured moonbeams. The three-quarter sleeves fitted perfectly, allowing her arms to move with professional grace, while the mid-calf hemline revealed sturdy Oxford shoes that seemed exactly right for a woman who might be called to deliver a baby at any hour.

Rose gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, Kiki."

But it wasn't just Kiki anymore. Something had shifted in her posture, in the set of her shoulders, in the confident way she adjusted the beaded headband that crowned her head like a diadem of achievement. She moved through the shop with purposeful steps, her spine straight with the bearing of a woman who had earned her place in rooms where she was the only one who looked like her.

The door chimed as Mrs. Patterson entered, stopping short when she saw the figure in blue.

"Good afternoon," Kiki said, and her voice carried new authority, warm but unshakeable. "I'm Dr. Justina Ford. Perhaps you've heard of my work in the community?"

Mrs. Patterson's eyes widened. She had heard the stories—everyone in Denver had.

Kiki moved to the display case with the fluid grace of the georgette's bias-cut construction. "This dress was made for the 1920 Medical Association dinner. Do you know what it was like to walk into that room, the only woman of color among all those men in their black evening suits?" She turned, the godets in the skirt creating subtle movement that caught the light. "But I had delivered half their grandchildren by then. I belonged there."

A young couple browsing near the window drew closer, captivated by the story unfolding before them.

"Fifty years I practiced medicine in this city," Kiki continued, her voice carrying the weight of lived experience as she embodied Dr. Ford completely. "Seven thousand babies I brought into this world. This dress?" She smoothed the silk chiffon at the neckline with reverent fingers. "This represented everything we fought for—the freedom to move, to work, to take up space in the world without apology."

The beadwork shimmered as she gestured, each geometric pattern reflecting light like the faceted surfaces of her accomplishments. "The dropped waist meant no more corsets restricting our breathing. The shorter hemline meant we could climb stairs quickly for emergency calls. This wasn't just fashion—it was liberation."

More customers had gathered now, drawn by the magnetism of her presence. An elderly man nodded knowingly. "My grandmother spoke of you, Dr. Ford. Said you saved her life during a difficult birth in 1934."

Kiki's eyes brightened with fierce pride. "Every birth was sacred to me. Every mother, every child—they all mattered. Rich or poor, it made no difference." She touched the crystal beading at her chest. "This dress reminds me that we dress not for others' comfort, but for our own power. When you know who you are, when you know your worth, it shows in everything you wear."

Rose watched from behind the counter, tears streaming down her face as she witnessed her friend fully inhabit the legacy of the remarkable woman whose dress she wore. The shop seemed to pulse with new energy, filled with the presence of all the women who had fought to make space for those who would come after.

"Tell me about this shop," Mrs. Patterson said, her voice hushed with respect. "What other stories live here?"

Kiki smiled, and it was both herself and Dr. Ford, past and present united in purpose. "Every dress here carries a woman's dreams, her struggles, her victories. We're not just preserving fabric—we're preserving the courage it took to be who they were." She gestured to the racks of carefully restored garments. "And sometimes, when you need to remember your own strength, you put on their dress and carry their spirit forward."

The afternoon light shifted through the windows, and for a moment the entire shop seemed to shimmer with the same ethereal quality as the midnight blue georgette—a place where past and present converged, where women's stories lived on in silk and satin, in beadwork and buttons, in the enduring power of those who dared to dream beyond their circumstances.

As the day drew to a close, Julian realized that the sanctuary's forced closure, while devastating, had also clarified something important about their priorities and commitments. Rose's legacy wasn't just about vintage clothing or animal rescue—it was about creating a model of community-based care that valued relationships over regulations.

"Tomorrow we begin the real work," Rose said, locking the shop door with careful deliberation. "Not just rebuilding the sanctuary, but proving that Harold's victory was temporary while our mission is permanent."

The vintage dresses hanging throughout the shop seemed to whisper approval from their displays, stories of other women who had faced impossible odds with strategic thinking and unwavering determination. The sanctuary's closure had been a setback, but it had also revealed the depth of community support, and the strength of the relationships Rose had built over decades of service.

Julian walked home through the Denver evening feeling the weight of responsibility balanced by the strength of purpose and community. The next seventy-two hours would determine whether they could save forty-three cats and preserve the foundation for rebuilding. But for the first time since Harold's campaign had escalated, he felt completely certain about what they were fighting for and why it mattered. Julian could not get out of his mind the image of Kiki wearing Dr. Ford's dress. Something tore loose inside him which made it possible to see Kiki again in a romantic light. What could he do to win her heart?

The threads of their story were becoming more complex, but also stronger and more resilient with each challenge they faced together. Rose's health might be declining, but her legacy was being carried forward by people who understood that caring for the vulnerable required both compassion and competence, both love and strategic action.

The phoenix was beginning to rise from the ashes of Harold's victory, and Julian knew that what emerged would be stronger, more sustainable, and more deeply rooted in community support than what had come before. The sanctuary would reopen, the cats would find homes, and Rose's model of compassionate care would survive to serve future generations of vulnerable creatures who needed advocates willing to fight for their lives.