I didn’t care to.
It was close to the highway, cheap, and had a VACANCY sign glowing in a sickly neon red.
That was enough.
Inside, the lobby smelled like old coffee and industrial cleaner—a sharp mix that stung the back of my throat. The man behind the desk didn’t look up when I walked in. He slid a clipboard toward me, took my credit card, and handed me a key without asking any questions.
I realized, standing there with my coat still on, that it was the first time in ten years no one needed anything from me.
The room was small and dim.
The carpet was worn thin where countless feet had passed before mine.
The air smelled of bleach—not fresh, but tired, like it had been trying to cover something up for too long.
A heater rattled in the corner, coughing out bursts of warm air that came and went without warning.
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to it for a while, waiting for my body to react.
Crying, maybe.
Panic.
Something.
Nothing came.
I took off my shoes and lined them up neatly by the wall, a habit that refused to leave me even now.
I placed my bag on the chair and opened it slowly.
Everything I owned fit inside.
A change of clothes.
Toiletries.
A few papers I hadn’t had the heart to throw away.
And at the bottom, still sealed, the envelope Margaret had given me.
I didn’t touch it.
I closed the bag and pushed it under the bed, as if putting distance between myself and the only unknown left might make the night easier.
I turned off the light and lay down fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while the heater clanged and the sound of cars rushing past on the highway seeped through the walls.
The first night passed without sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed the living room scene in fragments.
Daniel’s voice.
Sophia’s smile.
The word eviction.
I wasn’t angry in the way people expect anger to look.
There was no fire, no urge to call anyone and demand answers.
