The keys are jangling in my hand.
They are old, heavy, brass keys. They have the mark of nearly as many fingers as the stairs have the warm groove of footsteps.
There is two sets of keys, one for visitors.
There is a sofa bed, and a bed, a table and fine china dishes that the landlords gifted me with, to wish me good luck starting my life properly in Paris.
Ca y est, j'ai sign� le bail.
Tonight, I pack my stuff, tomorrow, I'll sleep without the threat of that little boy screaming in my ear...