Quinn drifted through the cracked glass of the old department store and landed softly on the display floor. He checked his pocket watch out of habit, though time meant little now. Today was the day. He would make this window the most talked-about display in the whole city, even if no living eyes were left to see it. He arranged the three mannequins for the seventh time. A jacket here, a scarf draped just so, boots angled exactly thirty degrees. It looked good. It looked clean. But something was missing, and the missing thing made his hands shake. Quinn floated back to the sidewalk and stared in. The clothes were perfect. The lighting was perfect. And that was the problem. Nothing stopped you. Nothing made you gasp. He needed a frame, a stage, something that turned the window into a doorway. He found them folded in a dusty crate inside: long, sheer curtains in pink, lilac, and pale blue. He hung them from a wooden beam right outside the glass, letting them billow across the walkway. The fabric caught the gray light and glowed. A drifting figure down the block actually paused. Quinn pressed a hand to the window and smiled. The display had its hook. Now he needed someone, anyone, to truly notice.

By morning, the curtains still hung well, but Quinn saw the flaw. The mannequins wore the same jackets, the same scarves, the same boots he had started with. If he changed nothing, the next display would be a repeat. A repeat would not make him the talk of the city. He drifted back through the cracked glass of the old emporium and looked at his three figures. He needed new clothes, and he needed them today. Quinn searched the store first. Every rack he passed had been picked clean years ago. Empty hangers rattled when he brushed by. He floated up to the second floor, then the third. Nothing but dust and bent wire. He sat on the top step and thought about the night cleaner, who sometimes fixed his scarf at two in the morning without a word. Quinn wanted that small hand to come back and find something new to touch. That meant leaving the store. He drifted out through a broken pane and followed the gray street until he found a row of metal bins stuffed past the lids with clothes. Sweaters spilled onto the pavement. A silk blouse hung off one edge. Quinn could not lift much on his own, but he could carry small bundles if he held them close. He gathered a coat with a fur collar, a striped scarf, a pair of wide-leg trousers, and a beaded dress that caught the light. He made three trips. On the last trip he spotted a workbench set up under a bare tree, left behind by someone who once cut fabric outdoors. Scissors, chalk, pins, a half-finished sketch. He took the scissors and the pins too. Back inside the emporium, Quinn stripped the mannequins and started over. He cut the beaded dress shorter. He pinned the fur collar onto the striped scarf to make one strange, bold piece. He tucked the trousers into the boots at a new angle. When he stepped back, the window looked like a different store. Nothing repeated. Nothing from yesterday remained on the figures except the boots. Quinn pressed his palm to the glass and waited for the sidewalk to fill, ready for someone to stop again. Then he noticed the pins in his hand and the scraps at his feet. He had cut and pinned and shortened without any training. The new outfits held together for now. But the seams were rough, and one shoulder already sagged. He would need to learn how to sew before the fabric gave out.