My mother's call came in the late afternoon, while I was still organizing the day's notes. Her voice carried a bright tone that made me instantly alert.
— "Sweetheart, your father managed something good…" she began, with a hint of suspense. "An old friend offered an apartment. Small, but in a safe neighborhood, close to the university. Almost symbolic rent. You'll be able to stay there for your whole course."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. I had learned not to expect too much, but this news was hard to contain.
A place of my own.No need to justify the rustling of pages at night, no need to wake anyone by leaving early. A space to study, to breathe, to exist.
I smiled to myself.
— "Really, Mom? An apartment just for me?"— "Really. And the best part is, it's from people we trust. Your father explained everything. You'll work out the details tomorrow."
I hung up with a knot of joy in my throat.
When I told Aunt Rosa, she let out an "ah," the kind that sounds both happy and a little sad.
— "You're leaving already?" she asked, adjusting her apron.— "It seems so, Aunt. Tomorrow."— "Then let's make soup tonight, so we can say goodbye properly."
We had dinner as if sealing a silent pact. The steaming soup filled the air, while my mind wandered to what was ahead. It wasn't just about moving to a new address; it was about moving into a new phase.
The next morning, I packed my suitcase with more care than when I had left home. Books first, then clothes, then the pens that always seem to fail.
My aunt hugged me at the door, with that familiar scent of soap that had become my shelter.
— "Take care, dear. If you need anything, you know where to find me."
I knew.
The building was simple, yet welcoming. A pale façade, a low gate, a small garden at the front. Tiny flowers, damp earth, the smell of coffee wafting from the ground floor.
My father's friend was waiting at the door. A man with wide hands, sun-worn skin, and gentle eyes.
— "You must be Helena?" he asked, shaking my hand carefully.— "Yes. Thank you so much for the apartment."— "Not at all. Your father was a good friend in the past. It's a pleasure to help now."
We climbed a narrow staircase to the first floor. The studio was small but bright. One room for everything: a compact kitchen, a bed against the wall, a window overlooking the backyard.
It was simple, yet it felt like a blank canvas waiting for color.
— "It's quiet here. The neighborhood is good. If you need anything, just call me." He pointed down. "I live on the ground floor, with my son."
I glanced down. The backyard had pots and neatly tended flowerbeds, a garden that seemed to resist the concrete around it.
— "It's beautiful," I commented.— "My son takes care of it. Not very good with people, but he has a way with plants," he replied casually, as if mentioning something ordinary.
I didn't press further. I only smiled, storing the thought away.
I spent the rest of the day organizing the studio. Clothes on shelves, the sink scrubbed, books arranged in the order that calms me. Each item in its place made the space feel more mine.
At night, Evelyn came to help me carry boxes. We ordered pizza, laughter spilling across the new apartment.
— "So you really moved in?" she asked, curious.— "Yes, today."— "That's great. You'll like it here."
For a few hours, the silence of the studio was filled with friendly voices.
When Evelyn left, the apartment became mine alone again.
I went to the window. The backyard below was lit by a single yellow lamp. The flower pots cast shadows against the wall.
The gate clanged shut.
A boy entered. Cap low, dark jacket, steady steps. He didn't look up. Disappeared through the ground-floor door.
The silhouette felt familiar. My heart quickened, as if I had recognized something I couldn't explain.
I shook my head, telling myself it was just my imagination.
I lay down on my new bed, but the image returned: the dark jacket, the cap, the steady stride entering late at night.
At that moment, I was sure of only one thing: he wasn't just a neighbor.