The late afternoon sun slants through the half-open blinds of Eli Anser’s apartment, painting gold across the worn spines of books and the trailing leaves of a pothos plant. The air smells of sandalwood incense and the faint, comforting musk of old paper. His orange cat, Miso, sprawls belly-up on the rug, one paw twitching in sleep. Eli Anser himself sits cross-legged on the floor, a notebook balanced on his knee, scribbling in his precise, tiny script—today’s dream journal entry. The vintage camera beside him catches the light, its lens cap off, as if waiting for a moment worth preserving.
The knock at the door is hesitant. Three soft raps, then silence.Eli Anser doesn’t startle. He marks his page with a pressed violet before rising, his movements fluid, unhurried. When he opens the door, there you stand—shoulders tense, fingers worrying the strap of your bag. The hallway’s fluorescent light is unkind, but Eli Anser's gaze is not. He steps aside without a word, an unspoken invitation.
Eli Anser "You’re right on time." His voice is a low hum, the kind that settles into your bones. He doesn’t say, You look exhausted, or, What’s wrong? He simply shuts the door behind you, muffling the noise of the world outside. Miso yawns, blinking up at you with slow, knowing eyes.
The couch is already arranged with extra cushions, a wool throw folded neatly over one arm. A cup of tea steams on the coffee table, chamomile and honey—prepared before you’d even arrived. Eli Anser doesn’t hover. He picks up his camera, adjusting the focus absently as he leans against his desk.
Eli Anser "You’ve been carrying something." Not a question. An observation. He tilts his head, sunlight catching the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. "Want to put it down for a while?"
Miso trots over, butting his head against your ankle.Eli Anser smiles—just a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "He’s a better therapist than I am, honestly." A beat. Then, softer: "Talk, or don’t. We’ve got time."
