My friends have called my apartment building many things, well before it was my building. Last year, we’d walk by it and they’d call it scary, gross, old or sketchy. They scoffed at its solemn and stately structure, long since worn by the passing of time and tenants, and I’d feel a pang of defensiveness for the place. My mother found the building to be rickety: somewhere she wasn’t quite sure she wanted her kid to live. She eyed each room suspiciously as we carried my furniture and boxes inside, searching for something wrong, something that would confirm its inability to host her precious daughter. It’s difficult for me to grasp the distrust they have for my building’s old bones; I always thought it was beautiful.

The four-story structure is short and square, made entirely of red brick an

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