The elevator was slow in the specific European way of elevators that were installed when the building was built and had been maintained rather than replaced, and the slowness of it placed Matteo and me in proximity for four floors without destination or task or screen between us. He had put his phone away. He was looking at the elevator doors with the contained, forward-facing quality of his default expression.
I looked at the brass fitting on the wall and thought about nothing in particular and everything at once.
The elevator opened onto a private landing. One door, dark wood, the number on it small and discreet. Matteo produced a key, an actual key rather than a card, heavy brass on a leather fob, and unlocked the door with the easy familiarity of muscle memory, the particular turn of
