Holland
I wake to the soft hiss of the fan and the kind of quiet that feels earned. For a second I don’t remember where I am, just that my mouth tastes like peppermint and sleep. Then the room resolves into the Maple apartment: the low, kind light from the cracked blinds, the throw blanket bunched at my waist, the coffee table’s neat little arrangement that didn’t exist before Remy arrived this morning.
I push up on my elbows and take stock of it all again. The couch smells like detergent and something new that I’m going to call safety. On the table: a glass with ginger ale gone flat on purpose; a chipped blue bowl with three brave saltines waiting like volunteers; a folded washcloth, still cool at its corners; three paperbacks stacked in a tidy fan, the top one a mystery I put on a wish
