2-3, D.

I remember most of the parties that took place in apartment three, on the second floor of Tower D. I also remember the music that played at those gatherings, and the music that filled the afternoons when I would secretly smoke by the window.

There were two speakers, at least five inches each, more than enough for an apartment that size. They sat in the living room, close to my desk, a part of the house I considered sacred.

Now that I think about it, those university days were beautiful. Back then, I was studying law. There was something ironic about preparing to become a defender of justice in a country where, day after day, every idea connected to that word seemed to be disappearing.

There is a huge window in that apartment, one that fills the living room with light and life. I had thousands of conversations there, some interesting and others not so much. I would light cigarettes, drink, and the speakers were almost always playing, since both my desk and the speakers sat diagonally across from that window.

Bands like La Vida Bohème, Los Mesoneros, Viniloversus, and Rawayana were always there, along with Canserbero’s lyrics, which opened my mind and made me imagine a better country.

In that apartment, I shaped part of my identity. I learned certain values and collected stories.

I have always felt that apartment buildings create their own kind of family—not only among the people who live there, but also among the people we welcome into them. As the tenant of apartment three, second floor, Tower D, I created a space filled with people who shared certain ideals with me, people with whom I shared food, music, laughter, and, in general, good days.

But we also shared moments filled with smoke that made our eyes burn and water, as well as others marked by the sound of bullets loaded with hatred, fired to suppress freedom.

In that apartment, I knew both glory and collapse.

It makes me think about all the homes that carry long histories within them, places that can be filled at once with dancing, songs, and pain.

Time always carries us somewhere else, and often somewhere better. And even when we feel that the homes we left behind have somehow been abandoned, that feeling is only an illusion.

Because home travels with us.

We carry it in our footsteps and in our hearts.