POV: AlieThe knock comes midmorning, polite and unhurried, like someone certain they’re expected. I’m halfway through an email when it lands, two even taps against the door. I freeze—not because I’m afraid, just because I’ve been living so much inside my own head lately that the sound of the world answering back startles me.When I open the door, there’s a courier in a dark jacket holding a box tied with cotton string. The package is large enough to suggest importance, small enough to be personal.“Delivery for Alie,” he says, checking the name. “No signature required.”No return address. No sender listed. Just my name in clean black type, printed from a machine that doesn’t believe in handwriting.I thank him, and the door clicks shut with the finality of a scene change. The box sits on my table like it knows it’s not supposed to be here.I tell myself this is what success looks like: clients send things. Appreciation, samples, promotional materials. Probably Heliograph. They strike
Huling Na-update : 2025-11-17
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