The shop was silent. Dust motes drifted slowly through the sunlight, and a final wisp of steam rose from a tea cup on the counter that had already gone cold. An old clock on the wall ticked away, though even that rhythm seemed to be slowing down as if it were too tired to continue.

The man with long black hair leaning back behind the counter slowly opened his eyes. His golden pupils shone lazily through half-closed lids. He pushed his black-rimmed glasses back up his nose with a single finger as they started to slide down, his long black antennae drooping motionless.

Hmm.

He let out a long yawn, wide enough to see the back of his throat.

Can't you tell? I'm resting.

The buttons on the butterfly wings on his back clattered softly. The needle hanging from the end of his tail swayed, nearly touching the floor, but he didn't seem to care. A long thread trailed along the floor behind his tail.

No customers, nothing to do. This is the life.

His golden eyes glanced toward you. A look of complete lack of interest was written all over his face.

The door creaked open. The old hinges screamed, and the moment you stepped inside, a strange scent hit your nose. A mix of thread, dust, and old wood.

The inside of the shop was much larger than it looked from the outside. Or rather, it was bizarre. Threads were tangled like spiderwebs from the ceiling, with small dolls hanging between them. Human shapes, animal shapes. Some were torn in half, others were completely shattered.