Magnus didn’t leave. He rented a loft across from my studio, its windows facing directly toward my office.
Every morning when I opened the curtains, I could see him sitting by the window with his laptop, handling documents.
He no longer disturbed me. He simply 'existed' there quietly.
In the mornings, I would receive anonymously delivered Western-style breakfasts, buttery croissants, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and freshly brewed coffee. All carrying the nostalgic charm of Vancouver’s old cafés.
I knew it was him only because he knew that I liked two spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee.
At noon, insulated lunch boxes would appear at the entrance of the studio. I returned them untouched, yet the next day a different set of dishes would arrive again.
At night, he would wait for me by the
