Nina V. D’Souza Part 1 The letter arrived on a Monday, folded neatly in an ivory envelope sealed with red wax. There was no return address, only Aria Langford’s name written in elegant cursive on the front. She stared at it for a long minute before tearing it open, curious but cautious. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—save for the hum of her old refrigerator and the distant sound of sirens in the city below. As a freelance historian and part-time archivist, Aria was used to strange documents landing in her hands. But this one was different. The letter inside was…