Kolli
The key turned and the door opened into quiet.
My new penthouse in Berlin did not sound like the old one. The old one echoed. This one breathed. It was all open space and warm light, wood floors that went pale to honey under my feet, walls in beige and cream that caught the late afternoon and held it. The furniture was low and soft. Lots of texture. Wool throws, linen, a big brown leather sofa that looked like it had been lived in even though I bought it two weeks ago.
It was nothing like the penthouse Danilo and I shared. That place was glass and steel and city noise. Every corner there had him in it. His boots by the door. His coat on the chair. The way he would leave his phone face down on the kitchen counter and forget it. I could not stay. Not after the divorce. Everywhere I looked it was like I could see him and it was driving me crazy.
