Her first day at work was 15 years ago. Although she has stopped recording in her book now, and she is diving into her old bed, a woman, trying to warm her body from the extreme cold, she remembered it now. Maybe the sound of rain prompted her to feel it.
One rainy day, she woke up before her mother and sat there waiting.
She remembered running after her father with his big feet and panting.
Her picture was written next to her. Occupation: Workers.
Now she has come back to pay attention to that daily Shouting she knows its voice very well that it starts at work at seven in the morning and doesn't end before the morning shift ends at three o 'clock.
She's the one who won't be in place before he begs her name.
Before the building wakes up, she wakes him up with a whiny shout.
Running back and forth, barricading the place, she hears the water rushing to the ground.
The sound of her hand beating all over the place. She is the second to always come here since she came here.
They all keep the positions, and the battles always start between them over the first place until she is calm and the battle begins again.
But she didn't try to capture the first one, she was content with the second, so she was loved by everyone because she was not a fight again.
Just today, she noticed the sound.
The sound of her cough and her breasts rising and falling, gleaning her breath, sits on the ladder, no one was there.
She always remembers the last 15 years when she arrived first.
Waiting for the evening. The old woman's last little secret, smiling like a child.
She's writing about these old comrades. Oh, if they knew about this.
She is more fortunate than old M, who lives on the first floor as she works.
That silence, the sound of the morning snarl, as it has been for years, grows stronger, and only she wakes up, too. She hints at her next door.
He's always around her. She hears the wind hitting her low window, remembers the cold, and trembles a little.
Her phone rings to this familiar tune, it's time to work and wake up, looking at her picture on her phone, muttering, Old Fucking Man!
It came to her that she was watching. She watches M cry silently, with copious tears she watched unbelievably, after all this time she will be turned into an inquest.
She knew that M was crying now, not for her, but for a new love two years old.
Two years ago, M was running around, unresponsive, picking up her broom in a hurry and hitting the ground with a sparkle.
She was doing everything in a hurry and perfect way, and as always, the only one standing above them all was here for years before they came.
She was their experienced boss, walking behind her, watching her hand signals.
The work was simple, but she didn't take her eyes off her hand, and her eyes described her work as if she were doing all the work, and her work was the greatest. Years older than her, but still boss.
She knew she came here as an expatriate, and she stayed there until now when she talks about it.
I asked her one day, "What is the matter with you people?
No, you didn't know what a sea tastes like.
She couldn't answer it. She had to say yes.
She eagerly awaits her vacation, preparing to travel every year as if to leave home in some distant country.
talks about her father, who lives in the attic with her only window to the sea. He's the only one who lived on the loft with a sea smell from upstairs. Dad, I.
She no longer talks about me. She had to overcome tears that were falling out of her, that she was trying to make out she couldn't.
He was the oldest boy there for a long time.
She was fourteen years old when she had her baby, she was the mother, and she was turned into his older sister. She rarely remembered that she stole her favorite cheesecake.
The little one didn't forgive. She used to say that to them.
She said kick me out.
My father and the boy left in a day. Her vacation was cut five years ago, she's not there anymore, she's only here on the first floor. She and the baby were.And that old man.
You call him a little boy who never grows up.
He doesn't grow up inheriting a disease to a grandfather he hasn't seen before, and he won't. All he loved was painting like his grandfather, whom he didn't know, and M knew him, but she knew it was like a disease in her family.
She lifted her head off that ledger before she could remember.
She remembers him she's tingling where he is now? Is there another one of course there's another one and he has children you know that.
The air strikes her window with a balloon that shrinks even more on her bed, and she has to die now.
She writes every night in her own notebook. She left it to be her little secret now.
She had a secret. Not to others. And sometimes you say no to them, of course.
They're like her. Each one keeps a little secret. How else would he wake up every morning and run to their roles.Roles rise every year. Floor after floor.