Georgia Koneva grew up in a narrow, sunlit apartment above a bakery, where every morning smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread. As a child she sketched the city’s rooftops from the window, drawing neat rows of chimneys and the tiny figures who crossed the streets below. She loved details others missed: a man who always carried a blue umbrella, a cat that slept on a particular windowsill, the exact way fog settled over the river.
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