05-06-2025, 11:19 PM
Ezvin smiled as she asked the question—not with surprise, but with the quiet satisfaction of a teacher whose student just found the question he’d hoped they’d ask. He didn’t answer immediately. He only fell into step beside her as they turned toward the third hallway—the one lined with old typewriters, zine stacks, yellowing paper, and emotions left behind by strangers.
The hallway creaked beneath their steps, the air warmer here, thick with the scent of paper, ink, and some faint lingering trace of dust and lavender. The old radiators hissed softly from behind painted-over grates. This part of The Nest always felt more like a chapel to him. Not sacred in the traditional sense, but reverent. Soft. Honest.
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat as they walked, his voice emerging low and conversational.
“Zines,” he said. “That was my first door too.”
He nodded toward the cluttered table that had no real order to it—some zines printed neatly, bound with staples; others were just folded paper, written by hand, marked up, sometimes scrawled over and rewritten in pencil like someone couldn’t make up their mind.
Ezvin stepped over to the table, running a gloved finger along the edge before crouching down beside the stacked milk crates underneath, thumbing through them with an easy, practiced motion. He was quiet for a few moments—quiet in a way that still carried presence—and then he pulled one from the bottom of a worn-out stack and held it up.
It was hand-stitched with red thread, the cover a messy charcoal sketch of a match being struck. A small title, hand-lettered in smudged pen: Temporary Fires.
He flipped through it, briefly, then gave her a glance over his shoulder.
“Didn’t think it’d still be here.” He stood, brushing dust from the knees of his coat. “Wrote this about a year ago. One of those nights where everything hit a little too hard and I didn’t want to talk to anyone who knew my name.”
He handed it to her, if she wanted it—but not insistently. Just offering.
“It’s mostly about people who set themselves on fire trying to feel something. Or make someone else feel something. You know…” He shrugged lightly, the kind of shrug that could carry a hundred unsaid things. “Passion without patience. Love with no landing gear. That sort of thing.”
He paused, then chuckled softly.
“It’s a little dramatic. But it was honest. I’ve never been great at the long game. I’m more...strike-the-match, see-how-bright-it-burns, hope-it-lights-a-room-before-it-goes-out.”
Ezvin didn’t look embarrassed saying it. He wasn’t someone who hid from his truth. There was no melancholy in his tone—just a soft kind of self-awareness. A man who’d never built a house with his heart, but had drawn beautiful maps of places he never stayed long enough to live in.
He stepped back, giving her room at the table. The click of a nearby typewriter punctuated the quiet, and somewhere deeper in the Nest, someone started humming under their breath.
Ezvin leaned against the edge of a nearby shelf and nodded toward the typewriters as he slipped out of his coat. It was tossed on the back of a chair as he rolled up his sleeves like he was about to get down to brass tacks himself.
“Take whatever space you want. Paper’s in the second drawer. Ribbon’s probably stuck, but it gives your fingers something to argue with.” A faint grin. “If the words are dying to get out, don’t let them wait too long. They get bitter when ignored.”
And with that, he quieted again, folding his arms as he leaned back, gaze flicking not to her, but to the wall of zines behind her - dozens of little paper souls, whispering from the shelves. Letting her have the moment.
The hallway creaked beneath their steps, the air warmer here, thick with the scent of paper, ink, and some faint lingering trace of dust and lavender. The old radiators hissed softly from behind painted-over grates. This part of The Nest always felt more like a chapel to him. Not sacred in the traditional sense, but reverent. Soft. Honest.
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat as they walked, his voice emerging low and conversational.
“Zines,” he said. “That was my first door too.”
He nodded toward the cluttered table that had no real order to it—some zines printed neatly, bound with staples; others were just folded paper, written by hand, marked up, sometimes scrawled over and rewritten in pencil like someone couldn’t make up their mind.
Ezvin stepped over to the table, running a gloved finger along the edge before crouching down beside the stacked milk crates underneath, thumbing through them with an easy, practiced motion. He was quiet for a few moments—quiet in a way that still carried presence—and then he pulled one from the bottom of a worn-out stack and held it up.
It was hand-stitched with red thread, the cover a messy charcoal sketch of a match being struck. A small title, hand-lettered in smudged pen: Temporary Fires.
He flipped through it, briefly, then gave her a glance over his shoulder.
“Didn’t think it’d still be here.” He stood, brushing dust from the knees of his coat. “Wrote this about a year ago. One of those nights where everything hit a little too hard and I didn’t want to talk to anyone who knew my name.”
He handed it to her, if she wanted it—but not insistently. Just offering.
“It’s mostly about people who set themselves on fire trying to feel something. Or make someone else feel something. You know…” He shrugged lightly, the kind of shrug that could carry a hundred unsaid things. “Passion without patience. Love with no landing gear. That sort of thing.”
He paused, then chuckled softly.
“It’s a little dramatic. But it was honest. I’ve never been great at the long game. I’m more...strike-the-match, see-how-bright-it-burns, hope-it-lights-a-room-before-it-goes-out.”
Ezvin didn’t look embarrassed saying it. He wasn’t someone who hid from his truth. There was no melancholy in his tone—just a soft kind of self-awareness. A man who’d never built a house with his heart, but had drawn beautiful maps of places he never stayed long enough to live in.
He stepped back, giving her room at the table. The click of a nearby typewriter punctuated the quiet, and somewhere deeper in the Nest, someone started humming under their breath.
Ezvin leaned against the edge of a nearby shelf and nodded toward the typewriters as he slipped out of his coat. It was tossed on the back of a chair as he rolled up his sleeves like he was about to get down to brass tacks himself.
“Take whatever space you want. Paper’s in the second drawer. Ribbon’s probably stuck, but it gives your fingers something to argue with.” A faint grin. “If the words are dying to get out, don’t let them wait too long. They get bitter when ignored.”
And with that, he quieted again, folding his arms as he leaned back, gaze flicking not to her, but to the wall of zines behind her - dozens of little paper souls, whispering from the shelves. Letting her have the moment.