The apartment stairs felt narrower as we climbed.
The rolled-up futon under my arm slightly blocked my downward view.
Yuna walked two steps ahead of me, her pace light but controlled.
We reached the second-floor corridor.
I opened the door to 203.
We went inside.
I closed the door. Turned the lock.
The room was just as we had left it—small, neutral, silent.
But now, there was a large, extra object in my hands.
I set the rolled-up futon on the floor.
"The opening ceremony," I said flatly.
Yuna knelt down.
watching with utter seriousness.
I tore open the plastic.
The faint scent of new fabric immediately diffused into the air.
The futon slowly expanded as it was freed from its roll.
I laid it out on the left side of the room.
leaving about an arm’s length of space between it and my own futon.
"Safe distance," I said.
"From what?" she asked.
"From gossip."
She turned toward the wall, as if she could see unit 204 straight through the concrete.
"And if the distance isn’t enough?"
"I’ll buy a measuring tape tomorrow."
She stifled a smile.
The gray futon looked simple.
Plain.
Unobtrusive.
It suited a room that likewise harbored no aesthetic ambitions.
I stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
Two futons.
A low table.
Two pairs of shoes on the rack.
A minor visual change.
But the atmosphere had shifted.
Yuna sat on her futon.
She pressed her palms into the surface.
"It’s soft," she said.
"Standard."
She lay down for a moment, staring up at the ceiling.
The apartment ceiling was plain white. There was a small stain in the corner near the kitchen.
"Papa’s apartment is really quiet."
"That’s the point."
"Am I intruding?"
"Not yet."
She turned her head.
"Not yet?"
"It’s only been a few hours."
She rolled over and sat back up.
Then, as if just remembering something, she asked,
"What do you do for work, Papa?"
I sat down on my own futon.
"Stagehand."
"What’s that like?"
"Set up. Tear down. Lift heavy gear. Run cables. Stand for long hours."
"Cool."
"It’s not."
"Why?"
"Because nobody knows my name."
She tilted her head.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Not really."
"Do you like it?"
I thought about it for a second.
"’Like’ is a strong word."
"So that means?"
"Neutral."
She nodded slowly.
"Did you ever meet Mama at work?"
The question came out calmly.
Not like an interrogation.
I didn’t answer immediately.
"A few times."
"Mama’s pretty, right?"
"Yeah."
"A lot of people like her."
"Yeah."
"You didn’t?"