The door to Carousel Boutique unlocks and then swings wide open.
A narrow swath of bright sunlight barrels into the fabulous studio, accompanied by a gust of autumnal Ponyville air. A shadow slices its way in. It's Rarity—young and ambitious—huffing and grunting as she struggles to carry inside three large bundles of imported silk that she just acquired from the post office.
The task turns out to be far too taxing. So Rarity places one bundle down on the outside stoop of her establishment and hauls the other two carefully inside.
The fashionista is preoccupied, focused on some creative thought or another. But—halfway through the beeline trot to her work desk—she skids to a stop with a gasp. She spins about wildly, gaping in horror at the wide open door.
In a panic, she places both bundles down then gallops across the Boutique to close the entrance immediately—
The cat is dead.
Rarity doesn't stop immediately.
It is a lingering end. Slow. Anticlimactic.
She finds herself standing—cold and alone—in the center of the Boutique. She stares at the uninvited sunlight being allowed through the gaping atrium of her domain. It does not warm her.
She sighs. She feels like crying. But there is no time. She has work to do. And—all things considered—this merely simplifies things.
After the unnecessary pause has run its course, Rarity walks the rest of the way to the entrance, picks up the third bundle, and carries it inside. When she closes the door, it is with a light push. It doesn't even close all the way. She keeps herself from stressing over it.