WINTER LANTERN HEARTS

Clara returned to her spotless Chicago apartment, feeling tired but aware that the life she had created began to become somewhat suffocating. There was a mild smell of eucalyptus and money in the building's entrance hall. She exited the elevator on the thirty-fourth floor and heard silence settle behind her like a sealed letter. The lighting in the hallway was indirect, flattering – gold reflected on the walls; no shadows were allowed here. She unlocked her door without even looking at it – she could do this with closed eyes now because it became a routine action. The apartment welcomed Clara silently. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows showed her an accurate view of the city – the network of white headlights moving across bridges and red taillights threading the streets. A snowfall was imminent but had not yet begun. The sky over Chicago was dark and metallic, reflecting its urban environment. She undressed and laid her shoes side by side against the wall. Exact. Always exact. Her coat went on the hook. Her bag on the console table. Phone put down face-down. The temperature in the apartment read 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Clara walked over to the thermostat and set the reading at 71 degrees, pausing before letting her hand leave the control panel. Three degrees. Ridiculous. Still, she did it. The apartment was spotless. But it wasn't some kind of staging because Clara really lived like this – everything neat and clean, the charcoal sofa without dents, dining table unused for weeks now, architectural models on floating shelves like prizes, white ceramics and steel lamps, precision. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was sparkling water, Greek yogurt, and the leftovers in a white carton with her neat handwriting "Tuesday." It was Friday. She closed the door. Her reflection in the black glass of the microwave made her gasp – her hair was tied up in a knot but it got loose, a little line appeared on her forehead she hadn't noticed for months, or maybe for years. But she managed to smooth it out as if it were something mechanical. It happened suddenly. "We've decided to move forward with someone whose vision aligns more closely with the firm's long-term direction." Delivered calmly, politely, professionally and decisively in a conference room with glass walls and polished concrete flooring. Of course, Clara couldn't do anything except nod. She walked to the living room and put the mail she had brought earlier that week back on the coffee table. Bills, design magazine which she had already gone through, and holiday card from one of her colleagues with a picture of golden retriever wearing a scarf. She sat down without opening any of them. Chicago was alive and humming outside the windows. Somewhere far beyond the river, there was a sound of an elevated train passing by, occasional sirens of fire engines. Life in progress. Constant progression. Clara loved this city. She truly did. The ambition. The scale. How buildings grew without holding back, towering proudly without hesitation. Without apologies. She walked towards her drawing table in front of windows and took out the half-made rendering from underneath the transparent paper. Proposal for the renovation of some museum. Vertical and clear lines, big and spacious atrium, and straight line going through the center of it as if to show the essence of the building. She took out the paper and examined the drawing. "Structural integrity must never compromise aesthetic legacy." Her lips curled in a slight smile at this. This phrase impressed the members of the Board of Directors when Clara presented the project. She saw it in their faces – approval, recognition. Then… She looked for her phone and found it on the console table, flipping face-up. There were no missed calls. No new messages. Her thumb touched the icon of the contact she hadn't contacted for several years now, almost touching the screen and deciding against it. She put the phone down on the sofa and walked into her bedroom. The bed was neatly made – gray duvet was smoothly folded down, decorative pillow positioned perfectly in the middle. She grabbed the pillow off the bed, throwing it roughly on the floor, making it make an unsatisfactory thud. The closet door was open. Inside – impeccably tailored coats, structured blazers in neutral colors. Everything that could be chosen according to the criteria of efficiency. She quickly undressed and put on an oversized sweater. The only item in her wardrobe that looked like she chose it for its comfort. Returning to the living room, Clara sensed that something about her apartment changed – it seemed smaller or, perhaps, she herself became somehow smaller. She approached the window and touched its cold surface. Firms, skyscrapers, buildings. Everything so close but so distant. A snowflake touched the window and melted immediately. Clara stared at her city's lights and her reflection fading on the blackened window. The firm used to call her "essential." And they called her "brilliant," "efficient." But they almost never called her "ours." And the reason why was evident for her. Clara took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, making the surface of the glass foggy for a moment, after which the fog vanished, leaving her alone with her thoughts. There was always nothing left on the glass. The room behind her stayed immaculate. Controlled. Perfectly designed. Silent.