An elegant, two-stores, plain white building on a street that was born together with the raising of the bourgeoisie in the late 19th century, and that since then it never abandoned that slice of society. The apartment was bright and spacious, from her bedroom window she could only hear seagulls heading towards the river.
As she was cleaning up the room from the leftovers of the previous renter, she noticed a notepaper stuck to the vanilla-painted wall. It was a little message in a language she understood a touch, the characters slightly popping up and down from an imaginary horizontal row, bold straight signs except for the “h” that presented a lovely curl, like a pig tail, on the top left line.

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