1.I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust

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Zayn has to put down the two boxes he's carrying to take out the key from his pocket.

He opens the door and looks around at his new place. It can't be even called a flat. It's a loft. A very small loft.

He takes the key out of the lock and puts it in his pocket again. Before reaching down to lift the boxes again, he readjusts the heavy backpack on his shoulders.

When he comes in, he gives the door a light kick to close it.

He gives a few steps to the right, where he knows a small desk is placed, and sets the boxes and his backpack on it. He acknowledges and appreciates the fact that the furniture is covered with old sheets. At least he won't have to shake the dust from every surface.

The loft, just like any other, is an open room with only half of a second floor, which has a double bed and a night table. The open area is occupied by a large couch, a coffee table in front of it, the desk, and a small table with two chairs. The bathroom, as well as most of the kitchen, is under the upper area.

It isn't the big, modern flat where everyone aspires to live. But it's enough for Zayn. And his favourite part is the big window that covers one wall almost completely. Since the loft is in one of the higher floors, he has a nice view of London. His building isn't in the fanciest neighbourhood, but street lights have always been captivating for him.

He wanders around, inspecting the setting of this new chapter in his life.

The fridge, microwave, counters and drawers were rather clean; which lightened his mood. But the floor could use a sweep. The contour of his soles have been imprinted for every step he has given. Zayn's not a neat-freak, but he isn't going to live in dirt.

So he decides he should get the cleaning done before unpacking his few belongings. And, without giving it a second thought, he steps out of the loft and aims for his neighbour's door. They should own a broom, right? He just hopes they aren't the type of grumpy neighbours.

The door is opened after the second knock by a small, short and white haired, old woman.

"Hello, dear, how can I help you?" She asks smiling.

Zayn nearly sighs of relief. An elderly lady with a smile on her face could be hardly considered as a difficult neighbour.

"Hello, miss," because why not? He wishes to be on her good side for as long as possible. Being in the good side of people isn't Zayn's speciality, "I just moved to the forty-six and I needed a little help," He points towards his door and has a trace of doubt in his voice tone.

"Oh," the woman giggled, "I haven't been called miss since World War II, dear. But, thank you, I appreciate it. I just hope you don't need help with lifting things, because I might not be useful at all. My grandson will stop by tomorrow, and he'd love to help you out,"

Zayn smiles "I actually, uh, I just wanted to see if you have a broom I could borrow?"

"Oh," she repeats, again laughing, "A broom. Sure thing, darling. Come in," She opens the door wider.

Zayn smiles and steps in. The scenario reminds him of his grandmother. Tablecloths covering every surface possible, frames with pictures of different faces on the coffee table, everything neat and clean, with a sweet scent in the air.

The only thing missing from his granny's house, are the plants. The plants that Zayn kept watering until the house was sold.

His memories are interrupted by something soft moving against his calves. He looks down and finds a Siamese cat rubbing his side while walking around Zayn's legs.

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