Faint whispers seem to cling to the dress itself, as if the fabric has absorbed the anguish of those who wore it before. The asylum dress is a twisted echo of confinement and despair. Its once-white fabric, now faded and yellowed with age, clings to the body in unsettling ways. The stitching holds it together like the fragile psyche of its former owner—tethered just by the barest thread of sanity.
 
The sleeves are long, hanging past the wrists, and are laced with dark stains that refuse to wash away, perhaps the residue of forgotten suffering. A high, stiff collar circles the neck, constricting like the unyielding walls of the asylum, its edges sharp and uncomfortable, never offering solace, only suffocation.