Mira glided past the glass doors of Whitmore & Lyon on a soft whisper that went unnoticed. Outside, the morning sky was gray but streaked with pale pink where the sun fought to rise. In the lobby, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead as she rode the elevator to the twelfth floor. Along the way, she caught bits of conversation.
"Did you see the specs?" "Budget cuts imminent" a hum of half-secrets and timetables.
When the doors opened, she stood in her doorway. There, on her drafting board, was a vase of roses so lifelike they glowed against her charcoal sketches. Deep crimson petals curled like velvet, and green leaves fanned out in proud display. At its foot lay a card in Gregory's neat handwriting: To the best architect in San Francisco…thanks for reminding me of half the magic I'd f
