"I hope I don't have to say this, but make yourself at home," said Gustav Meiden letting David into his apartment.
"Oh... Ok..."
David timidly stepped over the threshold and immediately felt like he was very far from the place he called home.
The apartment was on the top, eighth floor of a building that looked like a gray block. It was very spacious and furnished in the familiar and much-loved Scandinavian style. Except that the furniture here looked as if it had been bought in the most expensive store possible. On the walls, on the other hand, probably a bit for contrast, hung paintings painted probably some two hundred years ago. David had seen some of them in his Polish language class when he was preparing for his high school diploma, because contrary to the name of the subject, they were also taught about the literature and art of Europe.
