When I open my apartment door in the morning, the first thing I see is my broom leaning near the shoe rack.
My kitchen is tiny, and storage is a daily puzzle.
I keep my rarely-used winter hats—one cashmere, one corduroy—folded on the highest shelf, next to things I almost forget I own.
Living in the city means everything must have its place.
On Saturdays, my chores become a slow routine.
I sweep the floor, then do laundry while listening to street sounds from the window.
Sometimes I look at the old coats in storage and wonder if I should finally give them away.
There is a strange comfort in these small activities.
In such a busy place, quiet chores help me feel at home, even when there isn’t much space for anything extra.
