I enter the apartment and lay my suitcases down with a thud. It echoes, reminding me yet again that a lot of work must be done before this feels like a home. And then, I remind myself, it always takes work. I have done it before, I can do it again; the good thing is only, I will only have to do it one last time. This is home, for all intents and purposes, and there could not be a better one for when I stand by the window, the entire city appears to be right in my reach, and when I say the entire city, I mean the trees, the hills, the many leftover patches of green and brown that, I hope, shall not leave our collective sights. But, we can only hope. For every new apartment, like the one I live in now, a little bit of the city goes out, and it is nothing but irony to wish for one while wanting the other, and, I reckon, somewhat selfish and flawed. But then again, we are flawed creatures, are we not? I walk around the apartment. A hushed echo trails my steps and follows me furtively. That no one lives here is apparent within the first few seconds. That no one has cooked here, or gotten dressed on a day that continued to slip through their fingers, that it has not seen laughter or pain or extended days of nothingness yet, that no wine has stained the couch accidentally, that life has not happened here yet. But it will. It is, like all things, just a matter of time.