Lukas woke before his alarm.The apartment was quiet in the way that packed apartments were quiet — not the ordinary morning quiet of a space that was lived in and waiting to be lived in again, but the particular stillness of a place that had already released the person it had been holding. The suitcases stood by the door. The kitchen surfaces were bare. The bookshelves that had spent three years holding the organized disorder of a working life were empty now, and the spaces where the books had been held the faint pale rectangles of their absence, like memories of objects rather than the objects themselves.He made coffee with the small stovetop pot he had decided not to pack because it was old and dented and New York would need its own kitchen objects rather than Amsterdam's. He stood at the counter while it heated because the chairs were in storage, and he watched the canal below the window catch the morning light — what there was of it, the cloud low and the sky doing what Amsterda