Milan paused to let a seam rip in silence, and Versace stepped forward like a glittering field marshal of grief. The city wore black so severe, even shadows asked to see the dress code.

It was not a funeral, officials insisted; it was a final collection titled Exit, shown at the cathedral with god-tier lighting and a no-photography policy that every phone heroically ignored. Somewhere, a choir hummed a bassline fit for a runway walk at two miles per hour.

I watched it like a courtroom drama where the prosecutor is a hemline and the defense is a perfect dart. Donatella directed traffic with a hand that has signed more sequins than most people have emails.

Armani departed in a double-breasted mahogany you could iron your soul on. The pallbearers kept runway tempo, pivoting at the nave as if avoiding a photographer crouched in the afterlife.

Outside, resale apps pinged like hospital monitors for the culture, as everyone typed with reverence: vintage Armani black blazer. Even pigeons refreshed the page, one eye on legacy, one eye on breadcrumbs.

Wreaths arrived shaped like lapels, pinned with gold baroque safety pins that seemed to hold together the entire concept of adulthood. Versace announced, we do not bury the line; we archive it in collective muscle memory.

Rival houses paid respects the way empires negotiate peace: Prada cried in Helvetica, Gucci sent a maximalist bouquet shaped like a tax write-off, and Saint Laurent sighed in a tone only expensive glass understands. Balenciaga tried to stream it, buffering mournfully.

Barbers offered silent trims on the steps, because the sides must be clean even when the heavens frizz. Somewhere a tailor threaded a needle like a priest lifting a chalice, because precision is religion and the altar is your shoulder.

What struck me was the restraint: grief cut slim, shoulders natural, no loud branding on the sorrow. Even the sky kept to a neutral palette, a tasteful gray that tied the whole composition together without begging for applause.

Naturally, an influencer arrived in neon, hoping grief was an algorithm and the algorithm liked hats. Security escorted the concept of virality away, leaving only craft, silence, and a drone that finally learned to whisper.

We measure designers not in seasons but in stitches that refuse to lie. If legacy were a fabric, Armani taught it to drape, to skim the ego, to move like a secret you might actually keep.

As applause rippled in perfect tailoring, Versace murmured, elegance is dead, long live the fit, and the city agreed on a hemline for the horizon. Even the pigeons adjusted their lapels and asked for side lighting with better cheekbones, because the finale is still the finale.