Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Maybe I can even use this rare moment of peace to focus on something other than work.
I always have a hundred different stories swirling around in my brain. Half-formed characters, tangled plots and ideas that flash through my mind at inconvenient times only to disappear before I can do anything about them.
Between deadlines, distractions and the sheer exhaustion of daily life back home, I never actually get around to writing any of them down. My fantasy novel has been left mostly untouched, collecting metaphorical dust in my laptop’s documents folder.
But right now, I have nothing else to do but think.
Maybe I can finally unravel some of the plot holes that have been haunting me. Maybe I can figure out what happens in chapter twelve instead of avoiding it like a tax bill.
Or maybe I’ll just sit here, soak in the beauty of Rome and enjoy the silence.
*
The car pulls up outside my apartment building, and I take a moment to absorb the chaos around me. The streets are buzzing with life, while the building itself is charmingly traditional.
With a soft terracotta façade, wrought-iron balconies with trailing greenery and wooden shutters that look like they’ve been there for centuries, I couldn’t be happier with where I’ll be staying.
It’s adorable. Nestled on a quiet cobbled street just off a busier main road, it’s close enough to the action but tucked away enough to feel like a hidden gem.
From what I remember reading in the briefing notes, I’m within walking distance of a few major landmarks, and there’s a metro stop just a few minutes away. Perfect for exploring - less perfect for someone who will likely be spending more time in football stadiums than historic ruins.
The apartment has been rented out by the media company I work for, a temporary home for whichever poor soul was going to get shipped out here on assignment.
Mark Chapman lives nearby - the journalist I’ll be working with - which means I won’t be completely alone in navigating this new world.
Not that I expect him to be particularly helpful. From what little I know, he strikes me as the kind of man who assumes you should just figure it out rather than bother him.
The driver helps me wrestle my suitcase onto the pavement before nodding a polite goodbye, leaving me staring up at my new home for the next three months.
Well - here goes nothing.
I hoist my bags up the small stone steps, push open the heavy wooden door and step inside the building.
The air inside the building is cool, carrying the faint scent of something vaguely citrusy, as if someone mopped the floors with lemon cleaner in an attempt to mask how old the place actually is. The stairwell is narrow - the kind that was probably designed long before anyone had the bright idea of installing an elevator - which means I have no choice but to drag my suitcase up them.
I pause at the base of the staircase, sizing up the challenge ahead.
My main suitcase is stuffed to the absolute brink of its capabilities and feels like it weighs roughly the same as a small car. My two smaller bags sit beside it, looking deceptively manageable.
Priorities, I tell myself. Get the heaviest one up first, then worry about the others.
Gripping the handle, I brace myself and start the ascent. The wheels bump loudly against each step, my arms burning with every pull.
By the time I reach the second floor, I’m winded.
And I mean truly, embarrassingly winded - like I’ve just completed an intense full-body workout rather than climbed a modest number of stairs.
The hallway is lined with thick wooden doors, each one adorned with ornate brass numbers. I find mine - 2B - and fumble for the key that had been handed to me at the airport pickup desk.
The lock sticks at first, but with a little force (and a muttered oh, come on), it finally gives way.
My new home is small, but charming. There’s a tiny kitchenette with a fridge and two-burner stove, along with an old but sturdy-looking wooden dining table tucked beneath a small window.
The living space consists of a couch, a single armchair and a coffee table that’s seen better days - but the real highlight is the balcony.
I can already see the soft golden light spilling in through the French doors, an invitation to step outside and take in the view.
Priorities, I remind myself.
I drop my suitcase in the bedroom, glance at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser and give myself a pointed stare.
My auburn hair is a mess, my face is slightly red from my impromptu stair workout and my dark t-shirt is clinging to my back in a way I’d rather not think about.
“You’re in Rome,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”
Then, with a resigned sigh, I trudge back down the stairs to retrieve the rest of my luggage.