The door felt weightier than I recalled, or perhaps I simply wasn't prepared to step through it. I remained for a brief moment, knuckles still heated from the rap, the gentle buzz of the apartment enveloping me. Camille's door was shut, silent, yet I sensed the pressure behind it—like a little universe locked away. I inhaled, extended my hand, and slowly pushed it open.
The interior space was gloomier, a refuge created from the intense glare of the remainder of the apartment. Darkness gathered in the corners among fabric rolls and spools of thread. The air had a subtle scent of solvents, lacquer, and a persistent sweetness from the lavender sachets that Camille always stored away. I walked softly, mindful not to disrupt the neat disorder on her work table: drawings attached like treasured awards, threads sorted by hue and size, fragile tools laid out as though in the midst of crafting.
After that, I spotted her.
