Zara
The stairwell is narrow, the walls close enough that I could touch both sides if I tried.
We reach the top of the building, on the third floor. She stops at the last door on the left, sliding the key into the lock.
And there’s a moment—just a moment—where I become aware of the stillness around me, the way everything seems to pause as though waiting to see what I’ll do next.
Then the door opens, and the space reveals itself.
Smaller than it looked in the photos, smaller than anything I’ve ever lived in, it’s a single room that holds everything at once.
A narrow bed pushed against one wall, a wooden table and chair, a kitchenette that consists of two burners and a sink that’s seen better days.
The window is graceful, though, letting in a soft strip of light that falls across the
