Sunlight flooded in the room, illuminating the blonde highlights of the parquet, wooden floors. Three french windows looked out on the street below, framed by thick, cream, curtains. One had a window seat, covered with a sheepskin rug and an oversized pillow. I promised myself I’d sit there every morning and write. Where our place in New York had been dark, with clay-colored walls and no natural light, the walls here were whip-cream colored with intricate molding. I wanted to devour them.