The roof of Mira’s house is accessible from the third-floor hallway window, which has a latch that doesn’t fully catch and which I discovered in week two and have been using since.
It is not a dramatic roof, just the flat section above the kitchen addition where you can sit with your back against the chimney stack and see the city in three directions and be outside without being visible from the street. I come here when my room gets too small for whatever I’m thinking about, which is, lately, most evenings.
It’s Friday night. I have been on the roof for an hour. The November cold is real — I came prepared though, with two sweatshirts and the good coat, and my wolf is warm enough now. I can feel the city below me through the soles of my boots on the roof surface. The vibration of it.
I h
