The buzzer rang again, louder this time.

I walked to the wall monitor and pressed the talk button.

“Who is it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Mariana, it’s me,” Jonathan’s voice came through the speaker, raspy and distorted by the old intercom. “Please. Let me up.”

I hesitated, my finger hovering over the release button.

The wind howled outside, rattling the loose glass pane in the studio window.

I pressed the buzzer and heard the lock on the street door click open downstairs.

I stood in the middle of my studio, surrounded by half-restored canvases and the sharp smell of turpentine.

The heavy wooden stairs outside groaned under his weight.

I opened the apartment door before he could knock.

Jonathan stood in the dim light of the hallway, his expensive wool coat damp from the mist.

His tie was loosened, his collar undone, and his hair was uncharacteristically messy.

He looked older than he had a few days ago, with deep shadows under his eyes.

“Are they asleep?” he asked quietly, looking past my shoulder toward the dark hallway.