The Red Scarf
Longing for all that is out of reach.
Here’s a new flash fiction story from Woman with a Thousand Faces.
This place is my sanctuary — free from the weight of convention. Here, I write with boldness and vulnerability, giving voice to the unheard, and telling the truths that often go unspoken.
I share a new flash fiction story each week — to keep the muses alive and the creative fire burning.
All my stories are free and open to everyone. If they move you, you can buy me a coffee — a small kindness that helps me keep creating and sharing from the heart.
This story is inspired by a true event that unfolded inside the iconic Vakko flagship store in Beyoğlu, Istanbul. The photo below is an archival editorial image of the legendary department store from that era — the very setting where this flash fiction takes place.
The Red Scarf
Based on a true story
Istiklal Avenue was buzzing at its busiest hour. The embossed emblem on the stone façade of the Vakko building—the one they’d seen so many times in glossy magazines—caught the sun and flared like a spark. Light scattered from its swirling lines, bright enough to flood the street.
When they stepped inside, the noise outside softened.
In the muted hush of the carpeted floor, her mother whispered,
“Don’t touch anything.”
Her sisters went running toward the custom-made dresses while her father’s steps slowed. His gait resembled that of a stranger—dazed, off course. In the big city, his familiar proud presence seemed to shrink a little, losing some of its weight.
Among gowns embroidered with gold and silver sequins, dresses with ruffled collars hand-stitched in ornate detail, they each wandered inside their own private thoughts.
Kumru brought her fingertips close enough to brush the whisper of silk and organza, then pulled them back. A dark feeling rose inside her. She grew angry at a shimmering, padded-shoulder gown that cost a fortune—and then imagined it against her own skin.
She was about to slip into a fitting room just to feel sorry for herself when she noticed the glass counter filled with scarves. One of them was red.
The shopgirl was busy with an actual customer. Her parents and sisters were nowhere in sight.
She inhaled the teasing blend of vanilla perfume and freshly ironed fabric, stepped in front of the mirror with the red scarf, straightened her bra strap, and rolled her shoulders back.
She unbuttoned the first button of her blouse, then the second.
Tugged the fabric down, just a little.
With careful, almost practiced movements, she tied the scarf around her bare neck—Paris style.
In the mirror, she took a few steps back and angled herself as if posing. When she tossed her hair over her shoulder, the scarf snagged on the clasp of her necklace.
She turned her back to the mirror quickly, as if to erase her own bold reflection.
Buttoned herself up again.
Pulled the scarf off her neck without checking if the silk had torn.
She had barely stepped away from the counter when someone called out:
“Would you allow us to host you a little longer?”
Kumru froze, blood draining from her face.
The elegant man in a suit gestured toward a small, kind-faced older gentleman.
“Mr. Vitali,” he said. “Our founder.”
“The young lady has the perfect height, the perfect grace,” said Mr. Vitali, turning to her father. “I’d love for her to model for us. She must.”
Kumru glanced at the sweeping staircase, the black gown cascading over its rail like a waterfall, all the shimmer and sparkle of impossible things.
Her father’s eyes flashed with fury.
“Out of the question!”
In their small town, such a thing didn’t even have a name that could be spoken.
“How could it not be?” said Mr. Vitali gently.
“Colors, patterns… a beautiful, well-made dress, even a scarf—these can bring joy, you know. It’s an honorable profession.”
Kumru would have done well at it.
But she wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.
And that glittering, impertinent dream—everything they might have seen or become—had already drifted out of reach.
A Note on Vakko
This story touches a moment in the flagship store of Vakko in Istanbul’s historic and vibrant Beyoğlu district — Turkey’s venerable luxury fashion house founded by Vitali Hakko in the 1930s. Hakko’s vision pioneered the country’s modern fashion industry: from hats and silks to couture and ready-to-wear, from local textile workshops to its landmark boutiques.