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Artist
She sat by the café window, where the city softened into reflections and steam.
The coffee was bitter and steady, a small anchor in a drifting afternoon.
Strangers passed behind the glass, each carrying a life that would never touch hers.
She liked that, the clean edges of anonymity, the quiet power of being unclaimed.
For a moment, the world narrowed to porcelain, warmth, and breath.
When she stood to leave, the chair remembered her longer than anyone else would.
