<p><strong>Postcards from a Place That Doesn't Exist</strong></p><p>The first postcard arrived on a Tuesday, wedged between bills and advertisements like a whisper among shouts. Beth Harmon stood at her kitchen counter, morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, and studied the unfamiliar image. A cobblestone street wound between timber-framed buildings toward a fountain where water caught sunlight like scattered diamonds. Mountains rose in the background, their peaks dusted with snow despite what appeared to be summer foliage below.</p><p>She turned it over. No message, just her address in flowing script and a postmark she couldn't quite make out. The stamp bore no country's name, just a stylized oak tree against a sunset.</p><p>Luminaire
