>Nod.
>Our own room wasn't exactly a space-waster, either.
>"Small places don't bother me none."
>You nod; you've passed a few years in unglamorous accommodations, after all.
>"That's good," she says. "Because it
is kinda small," she adds in a quieter tone. And with that, she opens the door and steps instead. You follow.
>The door opens onto a long but narrow space - open in concept, though still not very large - with blonde hardwood flooring and pale tan walls. Probably the only thing which keeps it from looking cramped is the relative sparseness of furnishings, though it's still a little larger than your apprentice quarters back in Braston. And in a city like this, sure as hell costs more, too. A large window fills most of the far wall, currently drawn with pale sea green curtains. To its side hangs a wall scroll penned with rather amateurish calligraphy which reads "Embrace every morning with a smile." A low square table stands a few feet before this window, a pair of large green cushions on either side. In its center rests a cheerful-looking bonsai tree in a bed of sandy crushed stone, a small book with a slim cover lying beside it. Against the wall to the left is a straight-backed wooden bench padded with colorful throw pillows. Roughly opposite this are a pair of doors, both slightly ajar through not enough to peer inside from this angle.
>The rest of the room is furnished neatly with just a couple small shelving units and end tables, one of which bears a rather stylish lamp in twisted wrought iron while the others house an eclectic assortment of knickknacks from a large snow globe, its contents still swirling, to a faintly-iridescent spiral seashell and a small bamboo flute resting upon a metal stand. There are also several framed photographs, some of Kyouko and a few of other people as well; one particularly large one is of a tall rugged mountain, its heights streaked with white and ringed by green.
>Stepping inside, you notice a small kitchen alcove adjoined to the right of the room, mostly concealed by the door at first. It is decidedly minimal and perhaps even claustrophobic, but nonetheless manages to contain the standard infrastructure; there is a small ice box and washbasin and as much cabinetry as could reasonably fit while still leaving room for someone to move around. A copper tea kettle rest upon the small iron stove in the corner and the adjacent half of the minimal counter space is packed with ceramic jars of flour or sugar or somesuch. There is also a large cloth-covered plate with just enough unevenness beneath its surface to suggest some contents being kept fresh without hinting what they might be.
>"Well, this is it," Kyouko says. "Home Sweet Home." She smiles at you, then dashes off to light the lamp.