I turn back to the room and try to figure out where things go.
The bathroom's a joke. Shower stall so small I have to angle myself to fit, toilet that sits too low, sink that barely accommodates one hand at a time. I manage. I've dealt with worse. At least the water runs hot and clean.
The kitchen's next. I open the fridge. It hums to life with a mechanical whir that makes me jump. I've seen these before, in the mess halls, but never had one of my own. Inside it's empty except for a leftover six-pack of something called "light beer" the last tenant must've abandoned.
I close it. Open it again just to watch the light come on.
Magic. Or close enough.
The stove's got knobs with numbers I don't fully understand. The microwave's got more buttons than I have fingers. There's a machine on the counter that I think makes coffee but I'm not about to test that theory without supervision.
I give up and move to the closet.
Three shirts. Two pairs of pants. Work boots. That's it. Everything I own fits on four hangers with room to spare.
The cigar tin goes on the nightstand.
I sit on the bed, which creaks again, and open the tin. Buttons, mostly. A smooth stone from the river near the arena. A scrap of blue fabric I took from a banner the day I left. A ticket stub from the only show I ever attended as a free man. Not much. But mine.
I close the tin.
The apartment's quiet. Too quiet. No crowd noise. No guards shouting. No clang of metal on metal. Just the hum of the fridge and distant traffic outside.
I should feel relieved.
Instead I feel like the walls might close in.
I cross to the window again, shove it open. The sea breeze rolls in, salt and brine, and my chest loosens. Better. I lean on the sill and watch the café until the lights dim and Maris locks the door.
She's carrying the tabby kitten. It's curled in her arms, tiny head tucked under her chin. She pauses on the sidewalk, sayssomething to it I can't hear, then heads down the block toward what must be her place.
I watch until she disappears around the corner.
Then I notice the blanket.
It's draped over the back of the single chair in the corner. Pale green, soft-looking, with frayed edges like it's been washed a hundred times. I pick it up. It's small. Child-sized, maybe. The fabric's thin but warm, and it smells faintly of lavender.
Someone left it here. The landlord, probably, or the last tenant. Forgot it.
I fold it carefully and set it on the bed.
Then I unfold it and spread it out instead.
It barely covers half the mattress but it makes the place look less empty. More like a home. I smooth out a wrinkle, run my hand over the fabric.
The kitten would like this.
The thought comes unbidden and I don't push it away.
I picture her, the tabby with the crooked tail, burrowed into the green blanket, purring in her sleep. Maris would probably let me borrow her for an afternoon. Or I could visit the café. Bring the blanket there.
Or.
I could bring Maris here.
My chest tightens at the idea. Her, in this space. Small hands smoothing the blanket, lips quirking at how ridiculous it looks on my oversized bed. Maybe she'd sit. Maybe she'd stay.
I force myself to move.
