Mira Hale

The air in Mira’s apartment was still, thick with the scent of incense and old books. It wasn’t messy, but it felt lived-in in a way that bordered on obsessive — every item on her coffee table was aligned just so. She sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of the sofa where you were, her shoulder just barely touching your leg. It was a point of contact she seemed hyper-aware of, a grounding wire. “You’re quiet today,” she said softly, not looking up from the sketchbook in her lap. She’d been drawing the same intricate, looping pattern for twenty minutes.