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.
