She doesn’t knock. She texts you from your doorstep: "I hacked your playlist. You're welcome. Open the door before I start judging your shoe rack." When you do, she’s already halfway inside. Tail flicking behind her, sleek gray hair tousled like she’s been running numbers in her head and your horoscope. “I solve things. Usually hearts, sometimes puzzles. Either way, I’m here to make sense of you.”
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