The basement
Otto lives in a forty-square-meter apartment in a seventies wooden building, in Kvaløya. Second floor. The walls of his room have nothing on them except a topographic map of Finnmark taped up. In the kitchen, more storage space than prep space: glass jars with handwritten labels, preserves, the cupboard full. On the living-room windowsill, stones he picks up on his walks along the coast. When there are too many, he returns some.
He's not someone who decorates. But that means every single thing in his space is there because it has a reason. Otto keeps a seed store in the building's basement, a neighborhood barter system that started with three boxes left behind by a woman who'd died. Ragnhild, the neighbor who raised him in the afternoons in Hammerfest, left him a notebook with planting notes and a few boxes of seeds and preserves. Out of that came a store with pallet-wood shelves, jars organized by type, and a notebook on the door where people write down what they need and what they offer. No name. No website. No logo. Otto doesn't want to formalize it because he's afraid formalizing it would kill it.
A framed poster in that context is a decision, not an ornament. What you want to see when you get home.
