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... a florist and a quiet antiques bookstore, the kind of place people didn’t notice unless they already knew to look. It was small, dark wood, steel chairs, and the faint scent of cardamom clinging to the air like memory.
Elias pushed the door open at 4:01 p.m., a minute late on purpose.
He looked like he’d stepped out of an old portrait—a soft black turtleneck half hidden under a white button-down shirt, a long coat layered over both, and his gold-rimmed glasses catching the after ...
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