Chapter 11 – The Loft
The loft echoed with possibility.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, pouring across the bare floors and casting soft light on the boxes stacked haphazardly against the walls. Elena stood in the center of the room, barefoot, her arms crossed, turning slowly to take it all in. It was quiet—too quiet, until Marcus appeared from behind one of the moving boxes, struggling with a small bookshelf and muttering under his breath.
"Need help?" she asked, amused.
"I've got it," he replied, clearly not having it.
She grinned and stepped in anyway, lifting the other side. Together, they carried it to the corner near the window, where the light was just right.
"There," he said, wiping his brow. "Now that's a reading spot."
"Looks like an art corner to me," she teased.
He gave her a mock scowl. "We'll compromise."
Unpacking was slow. Every item told a story. Marcus unwrapped a framed sketch of a bridge he had drawn years ago during a solo trip to Florence. Elena pulled out a small wooden box filled with old paintbrushes, each stained with layers of forgotten colors.
They placed their memories side by side on shelves, blending lives one object at a time.
That night, after hours of lifting, laughing, and arguing over where to put the couch, they sat on the floor with takeout boxes and wine. The city sparkled outside their windows.
"I still can't believe we live here," Elena whispered.
"Feels real now," Marcus said. "Feels like ours."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I love it. And I love you."
He kissed the top of her head. "This place will see a lot. Our arguments. Our late-night talks. Maybe even a family, someday."
She looked up, surprised but smiling. "Someday?"
He shrugged. "Just thinking ahead."
Outside, the world moved fast. But inside that loft, time slowed—just enough for them to imagine what could be.