At my daughter’s funeral, my son-in-law stepped close and whispered, “You have twenty-four hours to leave my house.” I met his gaze, smiled quietly, and said nothing. That night, I packed one small bag and walked out without a goodbye. Seven days later, his phone rang.

I left the house keys on the wooden table in the hallway, next to the framed photograph of Laura and me at her graduation. The keys gleamed faintly in the dim light, a silent invitation for him to find them later. I didn’t look back.

The night air was cold, the wind whistling through the cracks in the old windows. I walked to the train station, my steps echoing on the pavement, the rain soaking through my coat, the bag heavy against my side. I checked into a small hostel, the kind with low ceilings and a single bunk, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant filling the room.

In the corner, a battered television played a muted news broadcast. I sat on the edge of the bunk, my back against the thin mattress, and stared at the wall, listening to the rain patter against the thin glass window. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t write a note. I just let the silence settle around me, the hum of the radiator the only sound besides the occasional hiss of the heater.