Frederick doesn't like that his private space where he goes to think is the room where they make over dead bodies, but he's tried other places and they just aren't...quiet enough. The stark white tile walls keep out any sounds from coming in. The room offers no distractions. No weeping relatives of the deceased. No father to tell him to balance the books or shove him toward the give the grieving widow who will most likely snot on his shoulder. Just nothing. And for him to sort out his thoughts, he needs to be surrounded by nothing.
Ever since the house was converted to accommodate her mum’s wheelchair, Raven has had the run of the upper floor. Three bedrooms all to herself. But there’s no space quite like her mum’s former walk-in wardrobe, now her own private study. Cosy, peaceful, with a whiff of Coty L’aimant still lingering. Disconnected from everything yet still within reach … if absolutely necessary. Best of all, who’s to know if she’s really working on her art projects or leafing through her late dad’s collection of comics. Bliss!
Walk in closets amaze me, it's perfect your own secret lair!
It wasn't much, but it was mine. Bookcases line three of the walls stretching upward to touch the antiqued ceiling. The desk, a solid oak, had been in the same spot my grandfather had left it. I couldn't lift it, and leaving it there filled the room with his memory. The high-back, overstuffed chair had seen better days too, but it kept me from aching too much during long nights. What would he think if he knew I ran intelligence for Starwood's resident Superhero from the comfort of his old office? Proud, I hope.