We prepare quietly.
No lists taped to the wall. No inventory of what matters most. Just the slow, deliberate sorting that happens when you know you are not fleeing and not arriving either. We pack what fits easily, what does not argue for itself. Clothes folded with more care than urgency. A book each, chosen not for usefulness but familiarity. A spare pair of boots. The small objects that carry memory without insisting on permanence. Nothing that would anchor us too tightly to where we are leaving. Nothing that would pretend we are not coming back at all.
There is no rush.
Time feels wide, forgiving, stretched thin in the best way. The network hums along without acknowledging our movement through the cabin, as uninterested in our packing as it has become in our presence. That steadines
