The morning light filtered through the window as if it were apologizing for showing up. The curtain, far too thin to block anything, let the sun spread in slanted lines across the room, lighting up the suspended dust dancing an indecent ballet.
The air was thick with the smells of old wood, last night's onions, and sweaty skin all fighting for attention.
I was there, lying on my side, propped up on one crooked elbow, my cheek creasing a sheet that had probably been white once. I watched Lina's room—it was smaller than she deserved, but more honest too.
No pointless decorations, just the essentials: bed, half-open wardrobe with clothes folded any old way, a chair stacked precariously with books, a pitcher of water, and an enamel basin with a towel that had clearly given up on ever being clean.
It was cozy in a spartan way. The kind of place you could exist in without asking permission.
