In a quiet town lived a discreet person with a singular passion: collecting underwear. It was not a fetish, nor a mania, but a true art form, a way to express her personality through an intimate and often overlooked object.<br>Her collection was a rainbow of fabrics, from delicate lace to sturdy cottons, from extravagant prints to sober colors. Each piece had a story, a memory, an emotion linked to a trip, an encounter, a special moment. There were silk underwear purchased at a flea market in Paris, wool ones handmade by an elderly lady in Scotland, cotton ones with pink flamingos found in a vintage shop in Berlin.<br>Her home was a sanctuary for her collection, with dedicated drawers and closets, where each pair was carefully folded and lovingly preserved. Sometimes, on winter evenings, she would sit on the sofa, open a box and lose herself in the memories linked to each item, smiling and sighing as if in front of a photo album.<br>Her passion was a well-kept secret, shared only with

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