The bell above the door of Habberdash & Sons gave a polite ding, even though Corduroy Habberdash was quite alone. That was how the bell liked it - courteous, consistent, and unnecessary.

  Corduroy adjusted his suspenders, gave a respectful nod to his display of felt bowlers, and opened the shutters to the cobbled streets of Cleavendale’s capital. A soft beam of morning sun poured over his rows of sturdy, sensible hats. No glitter. No magical resizing. No talking visors that commented on your social standing. Just hats.

  "Day begins," he muttered, flipping the little sign from 'Absolutely Closed' to 'Fine, We're Open'.

  9:07 AM – The Mannequin Visitor

  The first customer of the day was not a man. Not exactly. It creaked in with a hesitant jointed gait, casting a long shadow. A mannequin, animated, clad in a simple sash and trousers that looked hand-stitched by something with reverence and big thimbles.

  It held out a glowing spool of Jungle Thread, golden and pulsing with light from some wild loom deep in the Verdant Beyond.

  “For the cap,” the mannequin said, tapping its head politely.

  Corduroy blinked once. Twice. Reached under the counter and produced a solid leather flat cap.

  He held it up to the mannequin’s head. It was the right size. Of course it was.

  The trade was made in silence. Corduroy watched the mannequin walk out, holding the hat like it was a crown.

  He frowned a bit, thoughtfully.

  "Mannequins come to life, sure. Happens all the time. Left too close to thread magic or showbiz dreams. But they don’t usually... barter."

  Still, the trade was fair. And fair trades were what mattered.

  11:23 AM – The Commotion Outside

  Screaming.

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  Well, no. Not quite screaming. More like stylized distress.

  Corduroy stepped out to see a swarm of young ladies racing down the boulevard in various states of top-heavy panic.

  "She wouldn't let me be!" cried one, her chest bouncing in cartoonish defiance of gravity.

  "My spine’s not enchanted for this!” shrieked another.

  He sighed, watching as a laughing Boob Fairy, sparkling and mischievous, zipped through the air. Her name was likely something like Bustarella or Trixibelle, given the region’s naming conventions.

  A poor lad tried to calm his flustered fiancée as she turned to berate him for “laughing at the situation” (he wasn’t).

  Corduroy shook his head.

  “A corset-based society was always going to lead to this,” he muttered, returning inside. “Or maybe it’s just dumb. Or all of the above.”

  12:04 PM – Lunch with Selda Pinwheel

  Selda Pinwheel, the sharpest seamstress this side of the Satin Divide, locked up her shop "The Pin & Whim" and joined Corduroy on the bench between their storefronts. They both ate sandwiches. Hers was tuna. His was plain cheese.

  She was halfway through a story about a girl who demanded “a dress that shimmered like regret” when Raspen Gravescrip, the Gentleman Ghould Courier, arrived.

  He tipped his hat, which Corduroy respected—though it was, tragically, one of those enchanted things that curled to fit his mood.

  “Delivery for you, Miss Pinwheel,” Raspen said with grave decorum, handing her a black-wrapped package with three red stitches visible along the seam.

  Selda froze.

  Corduroy peered over.

  “Bargain-Weaver?” he asked flatly.

  “Bargain-Weaver,” she confirmed.

  Raspen, knowing the drill, accepted her silver penny.

  “I shall dispose of it in accordance with spectral protocol,” he said. “The flames shall be both cleansing and judgmental.”

  “Good,” said Selda.

  “Thank you, Raspen,” Corduroy added.

  “You are welcome, Mr. Habberdash. I rather like your hat today. Understated. Authoritative.”

  “It’s just a hat.”

  “Exactly,” Raspen said with satisfaction, then ghost-stepped away.

  3:15 PM – Repairing the Slightly Bent Trilby

  A man came in, muttering something about a “wiggly corner,” and Corduroy spent the next twenty minutes straightening the edge of a trilby hat that had been slightly smushed by an overly affectionate pet raccoon. No magic needed. Just heat, a wooden form, and patience.

  The raccoon had apparently been named Professor Snuzzleton.

  Corduroy didn’t comment.

  7:00 PM – Closing Time

  As dusk crept into the cobbled streets, Corduroy flipped the sign to 'Closed Until Tomorrow, Unless the Apocalypse Comes, Then We'll See.'

  He turned off the lamps one by one, casting his shop in deep gold and shadow.

  Before locking the door, he glanced at the spool of Jungle Thread on the shelf behind him. It pulsed gently. He hadn’t touched it since the mannequin left it.

  He didn’t plan to.

  Tomorrow would come with more hats, more people, and possibly another Boob Fairy incident. But for tonight, the shop was quiet.

  Simple.

  Just hats.

  No nonsense.

  Except, of course, for all the nonsense.