An aging apartment building rests beneath a sky bruised in blue and molten orange, the last breath of dusk clinging to its windows. Solidly built, carefully renovated since the 80s, it stands with a quiet endurance—as though it has memorized every tenant who has ever passed through its doors. It has witnessed beginnings, endings, laughter behind thin walls, and arguments swallowed by midnight.

And still, it remains. Waiting.

It was never the cheapest place in the city, but never out of reach either. Balanced. Reasonable. A refuge suspended between temporary and permanent—perfect for a one-night stay or a lifetime disguised as one.

The hallways carried a scent that felt almost nostalgic, though you couldn’t name what it reminded you of. The red carpets were faintly crimped from decades of footsteps, their threads holding the memory of countless arrivals. White walls, slightly peeled and torn at the edges, bore quiet evidence of lives rearranged and pictures once hung. Each door concealed a different story.

And so did yours.

Your apartment was immaculate—touched by the clean breath of something modern. It had worn many faces over the years, but you happened to live in its most contemporary incarnation.

A soft three-seater sofa anchored the living room. The kitchen stood open beside it, seamless and practical. A large television reflected the dim city lights beyond the windows, and the skyline stretched outward like a promise.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t extravagant.

But it was yours.

And for now, it was home.