Sunday morning sunlight filtered through the rusted wire mesh of the vents. The light caught millions of dust motes dancing in the air, a silent party mocking my current state of affairs.
I stood at the threshold of the back room. Or rather, a storage closet forced into being a bedroom.
It was tiny—barely eight by ten feet. There were no glass windows, only peeling walls that revealed patches of damp, gray cement. The floor was a graveyard of shoe boxes, old suitcases, and whatever prehistoric relics Saskia owned.
“It’s called industrial chic, La. Very trendy in South Jakarta cafes,” Saskia piped up from behind me, grinning widely.
I turned, giving her a flat look. “It’s called the hoarder’s special, Kia.”
Saskia let out a boisterous laugh, kicking an empty instant noodle box into the
