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The apartment was quaint. Small and dimly lit but comfortable and homey. The gurgle coming from behind the fridge hummed throughout the one room dwelling. A sound that could cause a stranger alarm, simply seemed like a soothing lullaby to the residents. The bathroom door gaped open, perhaps from the fear of the creaks and dripping noises it intermittently made. The apartment had character, if you looked passed the patched walls and bugs in the kitchen you could recognize its original appealing design and structure - Parisian chic. The room had one paned window, which looked out onto a tall thin sycamore tree. The trees unusual leanness possibly caused by its ever shrinking space within its surrounding concrete kingdom. The apartment, like its neighboring tree, seemed to be holding onto a place and a time that was once theirs. No longer a pinnacle site, the apartment disappeared into rows of stacked cement housing. It’s daily wear and tear gradually threatening its beauty and reputation. Maybe the noises, the groans and gurgles, were just the haunting objections of a once happening home.