I left the room tidy.
The bed made.
The window closed.
On the kitchen table I left a small letter for Mariana.
I didn’t write much.
Just a few lines.
Then I took the elevator one last time.
When the doors closed, I looked at my reflection in the metal mirror.
A sixty-three-year-old woman with a simple suitcase.
I wasn’t crying.
When I left the building, the morning air was cool.
For the first time in a long time I felt something like tranquility.
Because sometimes leaving doesn’t mean losing.
Sometimes leaving is the only way to find yourself again.
