Elara
The elevator ride up feels longer than usual, like the building itself is holding its breath. I step out into the penthouse, the familiar hush wrapping around me—the kind that comes from too much space and not enough noise.
My coat hangs heavy on my arm, still carrying the faint chill from the street, and I drape it over the entryway bench without really looking. The lights are low, the way they always are this time of evening, casting long shadows across the marble floors that stretch out like empty promises.
I head to the guest room—my room, now, though it never quite felt like mine. The door's ajar, which it wasn't when I left this morning. I push it open, and there it is, on the bed, centered perfectly on the duvet like someone measured it. A manila envelope, thick enough to
