Marta’s skin went cold, then hot. She touched the nearest teacup. It was warm. She lifted the folded paper. Beneath it, carved into the wooden chair’s backrest, was a name: Marta Lapiņa.
Then silence.
She never returned to Tvaikonu Street. But sometimes, late at night, her apartment smells like coal smoke and her tea tastes faintly of rust. And she knows—the address isn’t a place. It’s a promise. And it’s still waiting.
She pushed the front door. It groaned open.
"You came back. You always come back."
Apartment 5 was at the end of the hall. The brass number plate was polished. Immaculate. Impossible.