During her first week after moving in, Vera kept her boxes closed to avoid making a mess. Ognjen cleared half a wardrobe, two drawers, and a bathroom shelf. He was considerate, brought tea, and asked whether she was comfortable. Yet when she tried moving an armchair nearer the window, he said it had stood there thirty years. He had shared the apartment with his late wife, and every object seemed entitled to a place earned long before Vera arrived.
Vera did not ask him to remove photographs. She had a long past herself, although her marriage had ended in divorce. She merely wanted a small sewing table near the light. Ognjen suggested the hallway, then a bedroom corner with the socket too far away. He spoke gently, convinced he was seeking a compromise. On the third evening Vera closed the sewing machine box again and said perhaps she would leave it at her sister's until she knew where it belonged.
"The machine or you?" he asked. Vera looked at him because he had finally asked the right question. She said she did not want to become a well served guest who left no trace. Ognjen admitted every rearrangement felt like deciding something earlier had been worth less. For years after his wife's death he had not realized how much he had made the apartment into an arrangement protecting him from change. Vera did not assure him change would stop hurting once he fell deeply enough in love.
The next morning they moved the armchair together. Beneath it they found a coin, two hairpins, and an old curtain receipt. Ognjen placed the receipt on the table and studied it for a long time. Vera kept cleaning without rushing him to decide what to do with the memory. Later he helped bring in the machine. They chose a new curtain because the old one blocked too much light and kept one strip in the family photograph box, where it no longer had to function as a wall.
On Sunday Vera sewed while Ognjen read in the moved armchair. She asked whether the machine's sound bothered him. He said a little and fetched headphones, making her laugh more than any grand assurance that everything was perfect. His adult daughter came for lunch and praised the light. Ognjen pointed to the window and said the two of them had finally let it into the room. Vera returned her scissors to her own drawer, the first not simply given to her empty but placed where she herself had chosen.