Somewhere in the back of the shop, a clock ticks—slow, heavy, like it's counting down to something important rather than just marking time.

Y/n's fingers trail over a rack of vintage blouses, each one whispering stories she'll never know. Satin. Velvet. A beaded collar that catches the afternoon light and throws it across the floor in tiny rainbows.

The shop is crammed floor to ceiling with the kind of chaos that only makes sense to the person who arranged it. Teapots stacked on bookshelves. A mannequin wearing a 1920s flapper dress and a crooked wig. Glass cases full of brooches and pocket watches and things that glint in the dim warmth.

Umiko's already halfway across the store, holding up a brass telescope to one eye, aiming it at a taxidermied owl perched on a high shelf.