The Wistful Skyline
The letter lay on the oak desk, its paper cream-colored and heavy, the ink still faintly damp where the postmark had been pressed. Elara adjusted her spectacles, the brass frames cold against her cheekbones, and read the typed lines again, her eyes tracing the rigid grid of the inventory list Julian had sent, a document that felt less like a request and more like an indictment of her four years...
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