The Wistful Saga
The rain against the windowpane of the office is a soft, relentless drumming, a sound that usually helps you think, but tonight it feels like a warning. You are alone in the fourth-floor conference room, the kind of sterile, beige box that smells of floor wax and old coffee. On the table sits a single, unopened bottle of vintage Bordeaux, a gift from Julian. You stare at the deep red label, a...
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