The invitation arrived on heavy, cream-colored stock, embossed with a single, stark address. No logo, no corporate flourish. Just the elegant, sloping lines of Hale's personal script. It was waiting in her new mailbox—a battered tin thing attached to the peeling door of her studio apartment—two days after she'd finished moving the last of her boxes.
Ms. Vale,
I believe we have both been collateral damage in a story not of our making. I find loose ends disagreeable. Should you wish for a conversation, free of the theater that has surrounded us, you would be welcome at my home this evening at eight.
No expectations. Merely clarity.
— Alistair Hale
Elara held the card as if it were a live wire. The studio around her was a monument to instability: stacked boxes, a single folding chair, the pervasive smell of old carpet and fresh paint. Her bank balance was a number so small it seemed metaphorical. Every decision was now weighed in grams of pasta and bus fare.
