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A few creaks could be heard from the corridor as lazy night crawlers dragged their heavy limbs up the old spiral staircase. The dark wood underneath their feet was close to a century old at least, and it surely lamented each collision of careless thumps, and drunk hands plastered against walls in their plight for stability. The white paint had oxidised and was peeling off slowly like aged nail polish, but it was endearing, and felt like home. Other times, it felt lonely. The front door was an electric blue, but of the boring, washed-out type. It had by some miracle remained impressively unchipped despite years of abuse. Standing tall, as a trusty doorman, it was unaffected by the frost of autumnal wind. Droning of intercom buzzes filled the apartment with a hum, but the sound was faint, like a microcosmic symphony of automatic beeps (a kind of scientist's music.) Inside the second-floor apartment flat, little bulbs danced around the ceiling in watercolour, firefly, formation.