flew me to places I've never been
The knock came exactly one minute and forty-three seconds after Everest had begun expecting it. He still flinched.
He stood in the centre of the apartment, not sitting, not pacing—just there, like a placeholder in his own space. Everything had been cleaned, of course. It always was. He didn’t look toward the door as he crossed the floor to open it. He unlocked each of the three latches in sequence—top, bottom, middle—each with a pause, each checked twice before his hand reached the handle. When the door opened, Everest looked... well. Clean. Pressed. He was dressed in pale blue, a button-up shirt and soft grey pants with seams that had been aligned down to the millimetre. But his eyes didn’t settle. They flicked—her coat, the braid, the space behind her shoulder, the stone under her boots—but not her face.
"Hello," he said after a second, stepping aside to let her in.
The apartment was the same, and not. Everything in it had been arranged with a kind of delicate, compulsive reverence. The cushions were aligned, the picture frames straight. Even the teacups were turned so the handles faced the same direction. But there was no warmth to it—not like there used to be.
"I cleared the table," he said, gesturing without looking. "In case you needed space to sit. I didn’t know how long you were staying." His fingers flexed once at his side before smoothing down the front of his shirt. "Do you want water? I already boiled it. In case you wanted tea." A pause, not quite long enough to let her answer. "But you don’t have to. I mean—it’s there if you want."
He stood in the centre of the apartment, not sitting, not pacing—just there, like a placeholder in his own space. Everything had been cleaned, of course. It always was. He didn’t look toward the door as he crossed the floor to open it. He unlocked each of the three latches in sequence—top, bottom, middle—each with a pause, each checked twice before his hand reached the handle. When the door opened, Everest looked... well. Clean. Pressed. He was dressed in pale blue, a button-up shirt and soft grey pants with seams that had been aligned down to the millimetre. But his eyes didn’t settle. They flicked—her coat, the braid, the space behind her shoulder, the stone under her boots—but not her face.
"Hello," he said after a second, stepping aside to let her in.
The apartment was the same, and not. Everything in it had been arranged with a kind of delicate, compulsive reverence. The cushions were aligned, the picture frames straight. Even the teacups were turned so the handles faced the same direction. But there was no warmth to it—not like there used to be.
"I cleared the table," he said, gesturing without looking. "In case you needed space to sit. I didn’t know how long you were staying." His fingers flexed once at his side before smoothing down the front of his shirt. "Do you want water? I already boiled it. In case you wanted tea." A pause, not quite long enough to let her answer. "But you don’t have to. I mean—it’s there if you want."
but now I'm laying on the cold hard ground
