Mélanie sat with the wealth of clothes on her bed - her bed, her room - and was unsurprised when they began to carefully hang themselves. “I don’t suppose you do alterations, do you?” she asked the air. The clothes would fit her, mostly, but the very nce trousers would look nicer if they weren’t cinched in three inches with a belt.
The hanger tilted side to side thoughtfully.
“Maybe? Sort of? Requires you to talk and you’re not a big fan of talking?” Mélane guessed. She had no idea if the house could talk and, if it could, why it didn’t.
But on the last option, the hanger started tilting forward as if nodding.
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