He had the keys, the lease, and the view, but he had forgotten the skeleton of a home: the coat hangers.

Finally, he wandered into , a boutique that looked more like an art gallery than a closet supply store. The walls were lined with brushed chrome, non-slip velvet, and satin-padded hangers that looked comfortable enough to sleep on.

Arthur looked at his pile of twenty shirts back home. "I’ll... keep looking."

His first stop was , a dusty corner shop where the air smelled like old paper and forgotten summers. The proprietor, a woman named Clara with spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, looked up from a ledger.