First of all, there is a room. Of course, it is slightly different than any other room, because of the passage of time within it; time is compacted into the very structure of the walls. In this way, it is uniquely individual, and in this way, it is exactly like every room that has ever existed.
This room is one of a few in an apartment, all wood and bookshelves and the warm light that comes at the time when the night and the day are just mixing, and people have turned on their lights and swirled together a persistently shifting glow of artificial and natural light.
The room is in a New York City apartment, and by extension a New York City building. This is usually how that sort of identification of location works.
It is near Central Park. Where it is in relation to the park other than simply "near" is irrelevant. The point is that the owner of said apartment wished to spend some time at a distance from the ocean, and in doing so found an apartment that suited their needs quite nicely.
Her needs, to be specific.
She works, of course. She would never have it any other way.
There was a time where she was trapped in a stillness that comes when people who don't worry about money have slipped into a stagnant life of passive existence.
She couldn't breathe through the corsets under fine silky dresses and the chokers that choked a bit too far.
Of course, only a bit means the world when it's a constant.
And there is nothing more constant than a life one is forced to live, forced into living so tightly that soon, they aren't really living life at all.
