The wood of the hallway floor creaks under your feet as you make your way to the door. There’s that smell again, floating in a little cloud from the third floor ; a mixture of cinnamon, sandalwood and
cigarette smoke. The neighbor must be burning incense again. You balance the two grocery bags on your right forearm as you scour your coat pocket for the keys. The opening is wobbly when you insert the key, and you cringe as you try to find the right angle. A faulty door in a slightly dodgy neighborhood is a recipe for disaster, but it’s hard to hire someone to change it without raising any suspicions, especially in this part of Warsaw.
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