Liam sprawled across the plush velvet cushions of his window seat, the city's chaotic symphony a distant hum. A glass of iced tea, condensation beading on its surface, sat within easy reach. He was surrounded by the scent of old books and the gentle play of light and shadow dancing across the room from the setting sun. He idly flipped through the pages of a well-worn copy of *Moby Dick*, his mind drifting along with the narrative. He was completely at ease, the worries of the day melting away with each passing hour.
He'd spent the afternoon lost in the details of the story, unconcerned about deadlines or phone calls. A long, hot bath had preceded the book, and the remnants of its warmth still lingered within his bones. He stretched languidly, relishing the feeling of the soft fabric against his skin. The city outside, a place he usually found incredibly stressful, seemed distant and irrelevant.
A sharp rap on the door jolted him, and he reluctantly put his book down. The housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, handed him a letter, its surface bearing a familiar postmark. Curiosity piqued, he took it, his fingers tracing the elegant script. The name on the envelope belonged to someone he’d long since ceased to think about, someone whose actions years ago had haunted his dreams.