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"You look like a man with a heavy overcoat and a light conscience," the consultant said, sliding a matte-black, wide-shouldered hanger across the table. It had a notched grip and a swivel hook that moved with the grace of a watch gear.

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.

Arthur touched one. It bowed under the weight of his gaze. He imagined his Italian wool blazer dragging on the floor by morning. "Too thin," he sighed.

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