They smell right, for starters. Cedar and rain at night, a faint hint of cigarette smoke, and that tantalizing fire-incarnate that I’ve never been able to properly name.
Another thing that’s different: the ceiling. In Raymond’s apartment, the ceiling was tray-ceilinged with elaborate, hand-carved crown molding, lit by a chandelier I had to dust with a special microfiber wand.
The ceiling in Matvei’s apartment, by contrast, is flat, white, and smooth, broken up only by a single recessed light and the iron beam that runs the width of the loft like a dark spine.
This has become my happy place. No more late nights staring up and wondering where it all went south. It’s cozy and comforting. It’s home.
The only thing I dislike when I wake up today is that I’m alone in bed. I have a vague, blu
