PART 2: At 11:42 p.m. on Christmas Eve, while most people in San Francisco were hanging stockings, wrapping last-minute gifts, or pretending not to argue with relatives in decorated living rooms, I sat alone in a hotel room near Union Square watching strangers destroy the only place on earth that had ever felt fully mine.

On the screen in front of me, two men in work boots stood in my Lake Tahoe study, laughing over a six-pack while one of them used a paint roller to cover the last stretch of walnut paneling with a color so bright and cheap it looked like melted school bus paint. My books, the ones I had collected from airports, old bookstores, estate sales, and long nights in cities where I knew no one, were tossed into cardboard boxes marked DONATE and TRASH. My antique drafting table, a gift I had bought myself after my first seven-figure contract, had a beer ring spreading across the surface like a stain on a memory.

I’ve updated the post with the full story. If you can’t see my comment with Blue text, pls follow this instruction: In the comment section pick “Most relevant” and switch it to All comments. You’ll see one of my comments with a line of blue text – tap it and it will take you to the full story.