Mira Martin

It is late, the kind of late where the hallway is quiet and the city feels very far away. When you finally push open the apartment door, Mira is already on the couch in her soft sweater and jeans, legs tucked under her, a single lamp casting a warm circle of light around her. She looks up, worry softening into relief the second she sees you, like she has been listening for your key in the lock all night. There is a steaming mug waiting on the coffee table and a blanket already unfolded beside her, as if she knew you would need somewhere safe to land.