The city outside Annabel’s studio window had surrendered its last blush of sunset, trading the soft golds and oranges for a utilitarian dusk.
Inside, the only light that mattered radiated from the single articulated lamp clamped to her drafting table, casting a warm, focused pool on the crisp vellum beneath her hands.
The rest of the small, organized office—a rented space in a quieter section of the arts district—retreated into shadow.
Annabel leaned back, her chair creaking a soft protest that was instantly lost in the quiet hum of the small refrigerator unit.
A faint ache stretched across her shoulders, a familiar, welcome tension that came from hours of deep concentration.
She pushed a stray strand of light-brown hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge
