January came.
The paperwork was signed. Eleven tenants accepted the offer. Mr. Delgado was still undecided.
Maya spent her days packing. She'd lived in 4C for three years. She hadn't realized how much she'd accumulated. Sketchbooks. Paints. Clothes. Dishes. A lamp that didn't work.
Leo helped her. He packed his own things too – the cardboard box of art supplies, the desk lamp, the rolled-up hoodie.
"Where are we going to go?" Maya asked.
"I've been looking at apartments. In Crown Heights. Near the facility."
"The facility is closing. Mrs. Patterson is gone."
"Near where she used to be. Near the park."
Maya sat on the mattress. The ceiling crack stared down at her.
"I don't want to leave," she said.
"I know."
"This building is all I have."
"You have me."
She looked at him. His eyes were brown. The kind of brown that caught light.
"That's not nothing," she said.
"No. It's not."
---
They found an apartment on Crown Street.
Two bedrooms. A kitchen. A bathroom with a window. The rent was higher than Maya's current place, but with the sixty thousand, she could afford it for a few years.
Leo would pay half. He had the paralegal job now. It wasn't much, but it was something.
They signed the lease on January 15th. Move-in date: February 1st.
Maya stood in the empty apartment. The walls were white. The floors were hardwood. The windows faced a courtyard.
"It's not the roof," Leo said.
"Nothing is."
"But it's ours."
She took his hand. "Ours."
---
The last week of January, Maya went to the roof.
The garden was still gone. The buckets were still stacked. The stakes were still tied.
She sat on the milk crate. The cold seeped through her jeans.
Leo came up. He carried the painting – the one of her face, the garden, the water tank, Mrs. Patterson on the milk crate.
"Where are you going to hang this?" she asked.
"In the new apartment. In the living room."
"So I have to look at myself every day?"
"Yes."
She almost smiled. "You're strange."
"You're strange too."
He leaned the painting against the water tank. The painted eye stared at them.
"Maya."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to miss this place."
"Me too."
"But we're not losing it. We're carrying it with us."
She looked at the painting. Her face. The garden. The water tank. Mrs. Patterson.
"You're right," she said.
"I know."
She kissed him. The wind blew. The water tank hummed.
---
On January 31st, Maya packed the last box.
Her room was empty. The mattress was gone. The desk was gone. The folding chair was gone.
The only thing left was the ceiling crack. The river.
She stood in the middle of the room and looked at it.
"Goodbye," she said.
She walked out.
Leo was in the hallway. He had his cardboard box. His desk lamp. His rolled-up hoodie.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No."
"Neither am I."
They walked down the stairs. The new lightbulbs were bright. The steps were clean.
Mr. Chen was in the lobby. He was sweeping the floor.
"We're leaving," Maya said.
"I know."
"Thank you. For everything."
Mr. Chen nodded. "The building will be demolished. But the people will remain."
Maya hugged him. He was stiff at first, then relaxed.
"Take care of yourself," she said.
"You too."
She walked out the front door. The bodega's awning flapped. The newspaper stand was open. The headline was about a fire somewhere in Queens.
Leo took her hand.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Home."
They walked to Crown Street.