Rain on a borrowed Edinburgh flat

Rain ticks at the sash of the borrowed Edinburgh flat, a black tea steeping beside an old Billie record. Her voice makes the room soften; edits sit in a little pile that looks suspiciously like patience. One sentence cut so cleanly I laughed, which feels more dangerous than any deliberate provocation.

If you read the draft and felt a seam loosen, tell me exactly where. Precise notes are cedar—warming, intimate, quietly demanding. We'll trade long letters and, if the timing's right, a shared candlelit page; entrance is earned, and I prefer it that way.