Work Text:
Rue de Sacre Poumons 106 isn’t the worst apartment building you've ever seen, but it certainly isn't the nicest either. It's… simple. Humble. Sufficient. Children draw with sticks in the dust outside. In the distance, a dog brays a lonesome howl.
The front door opens without resistance, lock broken long ago. Making your way down the dimly lit hall to #12, you wonder if you're making a huge mistake. Did too many bad things happen? Has too much time passed? Maybe she changed her mind? Is the meagre bouquet you bought from a produce cart at the light rail stop sufficient? (Its hardy posies are beginning to droop ever so slightly.)
Your feet stop in front of the scuffed door. The 2 in 12 is a bit askew, missing a nail. You check the small scrap of paper again with fumbling hands. Yes, #12. Tiny placards say S. Malaìika & E. Hitchens.
Dei help you; it's time.
You straighten your bow tie (its teal the color of the Insulindic on foreign shores, bought especially for this occasion), clear your throat and knock.
Footfalls, then an ordinary blonde, radiant to your eyes, opens the door.
"Lawrence!" she beams.
Your fears were unfounded.