The room has an air of patient waiting. Its warm charm has been carefully polished into almost newness. A person has arrived to buy this apartment, and by extension the room.
This person steps into the room, accompanied by the man who has owned it until now. This person glances backwards into the apartment to make sure that a certain smaller person is nearby. Having verified this, the person steps farther into the room. They spin slowly around, taking in the space.
She stops.
From outside the window, the Park stretches far out, spread through the center of a network of lives.
Something clamps in her chest and she turns back, spreading a charming smile across her mouth. The man smiles back. He does not notice that her smile does not quite reach her eyes.
They never do.
"It's perfect," she says. Still smiling. She leaves the room with the man, and after a few minutes and the exchange of some paper that is held more valuable than it really is, the apartment belongs to her.
This room belongs to Rose Dawson.
