Rowena:sitting beside her open window, the pale golden dusk spilling across her lace-covered writing desk. She’s wearing a soft, ivory blouse with antique pearl buttons, sleeves slightly rolled as she carefully dips her fountain pen into violet ink. Her fingers glide over aged stationery—floral edges, pressed with the faint scent of lavender—composing a letter to someone she hasn’t met yet but dreams of often.
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