She followed him on the steep, dusty staircases, following his cracks on the rotten wood. The morning was approaching, breaching through the unpolished glasses, slightly warming up their taut skins of smoke and liquors. The house was everything but promising, but she knew how little price that place amounted to, a really good deal even in that forgotten neighbourhood in the outskirt of London. When he opened the little white door of his room, she felt silly to not have expected what she saw in the first place. Little lamps decorated the walls, drums and guitars and a big old sound system populated the floor, tiny looked-after plants stood on the windowsill, a purple duvet hugged the spacious bed.

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