The boiler makes a sound at two in the morning. You will think it is something else. It is the boiler. It has been doing this for years and will continue. Learn to find it reassuring, which it is — it means the heat is working, that despite everything the small mechanical functions of warmth persist.
The window in the second room sticks from October to March. You need to use both hands, starting from the bottom left corner. Once you learn this it becomes easy. Before you learn it, you will think the window is sealed.
There is a family of starlings in the eaves above the kitchen. They argue in the early morning. They have been there for at least three years before me. Give them the benefit of the doubt.
The previous tenant left a shelf of books. I have left a shelf of books. The ones without bookmarks are finished. The ones with bookmarks are not, and you will have to decide what to do about those — whether to begin at the mark or at the beginning or not at all. This is a genuine ethical question and I cannot answer it for you.
The light at four in the afternoon, in autumn, comes through the front window at an angle that makes everything it touches look more serious than it actually is. Your hands, your coffee cup, the papers on the table — everything becomes significant. I don't know what to do with this information except pass it on.
Welcome. The heating works. The window sticks. The starlings argue.
You will be all right here.