secret, curling through the streets of London with a damp chill
that clung to my designer coat. I tugged it tighter around my
shoulders, the cashmere brushing my wrists with deliberate
softness, a small luxury against the city's sharp edges. From my
vantage atop the terrace café in Kensington, the city shimmered
in muted golds and silvers, as if it were holding its breath for
something it hadn't yet named.
I sipped the last of my lavender latte, feeling the warmth bloom
through my fingers into my chest. Everything smelled of rain
and polished stone, of espresso and leather. I watched a delivery
man dodge puddles with the agility of someone who had long
ago learned to anticipate London's moods. Life had always
felt like a delicate choreography here, a series of decisions and
glances that, if made right, kept you floating just above the
chaos. I liked it that way. I liked control.
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