It was the 'Storefront of Broken Dreams', as it was known among the other shopowners. Every couple of months, a new starry-eyed person would rent it and its large outward facing window, fit it out to sell cookie pizzas, or boutique doghouses, or whatever it was that they had dreamed of selling, open up, last a month, then close up, repeat.
For some reason no-one who went in made a go of it. Some theorised bad luck, others a curse.
I told them that the rent was so high only those stupidly chasing impossible dreams were willing to pay it.
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