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Rachel led us down a narrow hallway that had a faint smell of fried onions mixed with lemon cleaner. She kept apologizing as she turned on a single overhead bulb that barely lit the place.
The apartment was cozy but overflowing with the kind of clutter that builds up when life just keeps adding things without ever taking any away—magazines piled high on every surface, faded floral curtains tightly drawn against the snowy night, and a glimpse of a tiny kitchen through a beaded curtain that jingled as we walked by.
The sink was full of dirty dishes, laundry was spilling out of an overflowing basket by the door, and every wall seemed to be covered with old, yellowed photos and trinkets that must have been gifts at some point.
"Sorry about the mess," Rachel said, scooping a pile of unfolded towels off the sagging couch and tossing them onto an already overloaded armchair.
