I moved deeper into my old apartment. The faint scent of damp paper and dust, stirring old memories. Here lies my old life, scattered across the floor. My beloved books, torn and trampled. Pages curling at the edges.
Someone had been here, ransacking what little I had left behind. I crouched down, fingertips brushing over a familiar spine. The last book I was reading before I left, that morning. It felt like I was touching a ghost. A life lived by someone else.
The air was thick with silence, save for the steady hum of the rain outside. I swallowed hard, the ache in my chest both sharp and strangely comforting as I picked up the book, flipping through the pages to find my bookmark and my notes, still intact.
"I can't believe I'm actually here," I murmured, almost to myself. I had loved this place. The very first place that was mine. I used to think this was the ultimate freedom.
