The apartment smelled like his father.
Tobacco and stone dust and the sourness of a window left cracked through winter. Dimitri stood in the doorway with his suitcase in one hand and his coat still buttoned, taking inventory. Kitchen to the left. Sitting room ahead. The window facing the harbor, gray light through glass that hadn’t been cleaned in months. A half-finished crossword on the table, pen beside it, cap off.
He set the suitcase by the door. Hung his coat on the hook behind it, the only empty hook, the others holding a canvas jacket and a wool scarf that still held the shape of being knotted.
The briki was on the counter. Handle facing left. His mother had kept it facing right, and when they’d moved to Vesper his father had turned it the other way and Maria had never corrected him. Twenty years and she’d never corrected him. Dimitri filled it with water, measured the grounds the way she’d taught him. Three spoonfuls, packed level. Sugar before the water. He lit the burner and stood watching the surface for the first sign of foam.
This story continues for members of Vesper.