“I’m Felix,” he said. “My mom curated this. She’s a fashion archivist. She wanted to show how families dress each other—how style is just memory you can wear.”

“You’re a model, right?” Felix asked. “I’ve seen you in System magazine.”

Felix laughed. “That’s a style too. ‘Undone Realism.’ My mom would give it a fancy name.”

The gallery on Mercer Street was called Generations , and for one weekend only, it wasn’t showing abstract paintings or sculptures. It was showing family photos.

That night, Lena texted her brother: We’re in a gallery. You and me. In our dumb sweaters.

“So,” Felix said, pulling out his phone. “My mom’s doing an opening night party tomorrow. And the dress code is ‘Family Photo Chic.’ Basically, wear something that looks like it belongs in a dusty album.”

“That’s my abuela,” a voice said.