She carried the invitations like secrets between her fingers: thick cream cardstock, edges deckled, each folded into a small rectangle and sealed with a dot of black wax stamped with an ampersand. In the light of the late‑July sun the wax gleamed like an eye. Lena had ordered them three months earlier from a shop whose storefront smelled of paper and lemon oil; she’d spent an entire afternoon choosing the font, a slender serif that bent like a promise.
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