Second Floor, 10am.
He had been writing music again. First just in little bits and pieces, then the pieces flowed together and became songs. There were many benefits of him finding his rhythm, such as being able to walk out, get a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and genuinely relax for a few moments before returning to the apartments.
Something was weird, he could feel that. But other than feeling more energetic, he didn't see the connection nor understood why he couldn't shake that feeling. Regardless, he entered the hallway to his floor and paused to read the front article, vaguely catching a whiff of gingerbread in the air. Huh. Someone must be baking.