15. Apparently, jazz was winning. （Tamara）
APPARENTLY, JAZZ WAS WINNING. (TAMARA)
Ispend three hours researching art conservation before I realize I haven’t moved from the floor.
The Kandinsky sits propped carefully against the fireplace, wrapped in acid-free paper I found in one of Aleksander’s storage cabinets. I ordered archival sleeves, climate-safe transport materials, and consultations with three separate restoration firms.
None of it feels sufficient.
The tear itself is small. That somehow makes it worse. A catastrophic destruction would almost feel cleaner. Final. Instead, the damage is survivable. Repairable, technically.
I stare at the restoration estimates glowing across my laptop screen and rub both hands over my face.
The apartment no longer feels tense. Only altered.
The living room carries traces of disruption. One chair slightly repositioned. The absence of the painting above the fireplace. Tiny changes that somehow make the entire space feel exposed.
Like I cracked something open accidentally.
My phone buzzes.
Maya again.
I answer this time.
“You stopped responding mid-text spiral,” she says. “Which is usually either emotional collapse or homicide.”
“Good evening to you too.”
“The Healy site visit is back on the books for Thursday, by the way.” Papers shuffle faintly on her end. “Your terrifying new security people already coordinated the route and arrival schedule.”
I blink. “My what?”
“I spent twenty minutes on the phone with someone named Yuri discussing traffic patterns and building access protocols.” A beat. “Honestly, he’s more organized than most contractors.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It’s weirdly efficient.” Another pause. “Are you actually going to make the visit?”
The wrapped Kandinsky waits beside the fireplace.
“That’s the plan.”
“You should,” Maya says. “You sound more like yourself when you’re working.”
After we hang up, I move into the study instead of going to bed.
Over the last few days, my work has started patiently spreading through the room. Material binders stacked beside acquisition reports. Fabric samples draped over the back of one of Aleksander’s chairs. Pencils and floor plans slowly overtaking the far end of his desk.
At first, I kept trying to contain it. Packing everything away each night. Keeping my side temporary.
But Aleksander never seemed bothered by it. If anything, he’s been unexpectedly careful with my things.
The samples I leave open reappear stacked neatly by morning. My sketches stay exactly where I left them instead of disappearing into organized piles. Yesterday I found one of my lighting boards repositioned farther from the windows so the afternoon sun wouldn’t fade the fabric swatches.
The kind of attention that feels far more dangerous than grand gestures.
I settle into the chair and open my laptop.
Work steadies me.
Before I open the mood boards, I start the playlist I use when a room won’t settle in my head. Low piano. Brushed drums. A trumpet slipping between the notes like smoke.
Jazz, always.
Classical music tells a room what it should feel like. Jazz lets it breathe first.
The notes soften the study almost immediately, taking the edge off the glass and steel, making the apartment feel less like a place designed to impress people and more like a place someone might stay.
Mood boards first, then lighting studies. Traffic flow through the living room—there isn’t any currently, which explains the feeling of being watched by furniture. Texture balance.
The apartment slowly begins reassembling itself across my screens in conceptual layers. Warmer woods to counteract the marble. Softer architectural lighting. Breaking the symmetry in the living room. Making spaces people can actually use.
The goal is not to replace Elena. I know that before I can explain why.
I’m adjusting lighting plans when a shadow crosses the doorway.
Aleksander.
I hadn’t heard him come in.
He pauses just inside the study, taking in the room piece by piece.
The restoration contacts open on one monitor.
Floor plans on another. Material samples spread across the desk.
Fabric swatches draped over the back of his chair.
The low jazz still playing from my laptop, soft enough to be background, intimate enough that I suddenly feel caught.
“You’re still working,” he says.
“So are you.”
He notices the restoration estimate. “You found conservators quickly.”
Whatever he feels about it, he keeps it to himself.
“I know people in the auction world.”
Aleksander steps farther into the room, stopping beside the desk. Close enough now that I catch the familiar scent of cedar and smoke beneath the snow lingering in his coat.
His attention shifts toward the redesign boards. “You changed the lighting first.”
“The current layout emphasizes symmetry over atmosphere.”
“And the jazz?”
“That’s for atmosphere too.”
A faint, almost-smile touches his mouth. “That sounds like criticism.”
“It is criticism.”
“Good.” He studies the plans again. “The symmetry was Elena.”
That catches me off guard.
I search his face for a reaction. “She designed this place with you?”
Aleksander’s attention stays on the plans for a moment before he nods once. “We chose it together.”
Something about the way he says it lands somewhere I wasn’t expecting.
Not longing. Memory. The kind that still lives in a room years later.
“She liked order?”
“She liked balance.” His gaze remains on the screens instead of me. “I liked control. Those are different things, apparently.”
He admits it without defending himself. I focus on the plans again. “I’m not trying to erase her,” I say after a moment.
“I know.”
I am not prepared for how quickly he says it.
Aleksander studies the redesign boards, like he’s trying to imagine people actually living here again.
Then he reaches past me, one hand braced lightly against the desk as he adjusts the angle of a material board I’d left crooked. He adjusts it not to correct me, I realize, but because it was bothering him.
The movement places him suddenly very close. Not touching. Still enough to feel aware of him everywhere.
His sleeve brushes lightly against mine.
My pulse stutters once. Ridiculous. We’re standing over fabric samples.
“You hate the marble,” he says.
“It’s too cold.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I was right yesterday too.”
A breath that might almost be laughter leaves him. When I look up, he’s studying me, fully present.
“What was she like?” The question hangs between us.
Aleksander doesn’t answer immediately. Then, “Loud,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve heard it. “Stubborn. Impossible when she thought she was right.” He studies the redesign renderings again. “What would you keep?” he asks.
The question feels larger than the apartment.
I slowly shift my attention back to the screen. “The structure,” I say after a moment. “Some of the art. The openness.” My fingers brush lightly across the edge of the desk. “The things that still feel alive.”
He is quiet long enough that I look up. His focus is not on the plans anymore.
“Make it ours,” he says, and for once, he looks as surprised by the words as I feel.
Suddenly I can see it: this apartment transformed slowly around us. Morning coffee. Arguments about marble. Late nights with my work bleeding into his. A life settling accidentally into shared space.
A life I may never stay long enough to live.
Aleksander watches me find the edge of that thought. I lower my eyes before he can read the rest.
“Okay,” I say.
I mean more than the apartment. I’m not sure he doesn’t know it.