It was an old three-story school building at the edge of an industrial district, near the river, with big windows, worn-out corridors, a shared kitchen on every floor, and a rooftop from which you could see cranes, rusted roofs, and the gray water moving heavily. The building had first been occupied by some students, then artists, then activists, then people like me, who wanted a place that was cheap, collective, honest. At least that was what we called it.

Painted in black letters above the old reception desk at the entrance was:

NO ONE SURVIVES ALONE