The iron gate squeaked when I pushed it, a small, dignified sound. Inside, the air smelled like coffee and furniture polish, and the living room looked like a history book—oaken cabinets, sepia photographs, shelves of dog-eared novels and engineering manuals.
He met me at the door—tall, still, shoulders rounded by time, white hair neat, gray eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that makes you stand straighter. “You must be the one they sent,” he said, voice warm and low.
He smiled at that, as if the neighborhood itself were an old friend. “Come in.”
I set the kettle to boil, and he watched me—not intrusively, more like an observer catching a familiar rhythm. “You walk fast,” he noted. “As if time is pushing you.”
I laughed. “Habit.”
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