Eliot Hargrove had never believed in “curses” or “fate.” He was a data analyst, a creature of numbers, probabilities, and spreadsheets—a man who could predict the weather in a boardroom but not the weather of his own life. It was the day his mother died, and the city was drenched in rain, that a thin envelope slipped through his mail slot, unaddressed, with a single word stamped in black ink on the front: .
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Morning arrived, but it was not the one he expected.
