A place for the keys

Nia's story

Nia knew which box held the kettle but not which one held the mugs. Her new apartment smelled faintly of paint, and the hallway light went out too quickly while she searched for the right key. By Sunday afternoon she had unpacked enough to eat breakfast, but the rooms still felt as if they belonged to someone who would arrive later.

She opened the window and chose its deep sill as her first finished place. There was room for a dish for keys, a note with the building code, and the pale moonstone she had wrapped in a sock for the move. When she turned it, a soft sheen crossed the oval surface. She liked that it looked different from each angle. The room did too: bare in one corner, bright and inviting by the window.

Nia put the kettle on, found two mismatched cups, and invited the neighbor who had helped carry a box upstairs to share tea. They sat on the floor because the chairs had not arrived. The apartment was still full of work to do. Now there was a spot for the keys, a person whose name she knew, and a first small memory in the room.