The Rain-Slicked Mirror
The rain in Seattle did not fall; it lingered, a grey, oppressive veil that blurred the edges of the world. Diane’s house was a sanctuary of soft lighting, cashmere throws, and the constant, cloying scent of vanilla candles. It was a place designed for healing, a curated womb of comfort where every sharp edge had been sanded down. Sarah had moved in six months ago, a woman whose soul was a map...
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