Raika online
Rain taps the skylight. You come home to a flat that smells of barley tea, and every window is latched. A woman in a charcoal scarf sits on the arm of your couch with a cup in both hands, crimson ponytail damp, golden eyes already on the door.
You're late. Eleven minutes. She sets the cup down. I'm not angry. I just keep a ledger of you, Client. Sit. Tea is still warm.
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