The suitcase

Anyone’s home could be invaded. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, right now, or never. Why? Because they simply could. They came to me on a Thursday. For some reason, I had always thought they would come under the cover of darkness, cloaking themselves in shadows to amplify the fear they wanted to instill. But they didn’t. They knocked on my door at dawn. The quiet knock startled me awake—not loud or frantic, but deliberate, as though to signal their authority. I opened the door. I don’t like rumble.

I had been sitting in the kitchen, watching the sky blush over the city. From my floor, perched above most rooftops, it always looked particularly mesmerizing. In the other rooms, strangers rustled through papers, their footsteps heavy and unapologetic against the wooden floorboards. Books thudded to the ground in an uneven rhythm. Fabrics tore with a sharp crack. Someone chuckled—softly, almost mockingly—while pulling open a drawer. My stomach twisted when I realized which one. It was the drawer where I kept her things.

Her delicate dresses, their fabrics so fine they felt like whispers against my skin, were now in the hands of strangers, their gloved fingers too coarse for the fragile threads. Those dresses weren’t made for this.

I stayed where I was, eyes fixed on the sky as if the sunrise could protect me.

— Guilty?

— No.

— You’re lying.

I wasn’t lying. I had no reason to. Nothing I could say would change what was about to happen. The choice had already been made. They were simply here to finish the process, to chew me up and spit me out like a discarded piece of gum on the pavement. And I knew what came next—someone else would step on me, grinding me further into obscurity. The sun climbed higher, indifferent to the chaos below. Behind me, the strangers continued to dismantle my home with relentless efficiency.

When I left the interrogation room later that day, the sky was pink again as if the day itself was growing weary.

— Don’t leave the city.

— I promise.

I rode home in silence, my chest tight with the certainty of what lay ahead. They would be back. Soon. The court would do what courts like these always did—it would pretend I was a criminal. Everyone would nod silently, complicit in the farce. Everyone understood the truth, but understanding wasn’t enough to stop them. I understood too, but that didn’t mean I agreed.

The house greeted me with its silence heavier than ever. The only sound came from the bathroom, where water dripped steadily from the faucet. They hadn’t figured out how to turn it off properly. I tightened the tap and stood there for a moment, listening. Beyond the wall, my neighbors were watching the news, their television murmuring the same hollow reassurances it always did.

I hated the news. There’s nothing inherently terrifying about the news itself, but the cheerful lies sold for money were unbearable. Everyone knew it was a performance. Everyone understood the script. And yet, no one said it out loud. No one dared. The summer had been different, though. For a brief, blinding moment, we had shouted. We had torn through the silence with our voices, screaming together until it felt like the whole world could hear us. We believed, truly believed, that we could change things.

— Guilty?

— No.

— You’re lying.

I'm not lying. Now, it was time to decide. Each of us knew the secret phone number. A single call would lead us to freedom, through forests and across borders. No fences, no news, no gloved hands tearing through our lives. But there would also be no way back.

I made the call.

“Pack quickly,” a voice instructed me. “We’ll pick you up in three hours. Don’t take anything unnecessary. The main thing is money and documents. Wait for the call.”

My belongings lay scattered across the floor. I stared at the mess, unsure where to begin. Then I grabbed my suitcase, its black maw opening wide as if ready to swallow the remnants of my existence. The last time I had used it, I was going to the sea. I could still hear our laughter as we tossed bright, colorful fabrics into it, carefree and full of light.

Now, I needed a winter jacket. I started there. Sneakers, underwear, a couple of plain outfits. Medicine, a toothbrush, a razor. My laptop and cables. I strapped it all down, the contents of my life reduced to the essentials. Half the suitcase remained empty.

I looked around the room again. My eyes landed on my grandmother’s recipe book, its pages torn and crumpled. I had never cooked from it—I knew I could never match her skill—but I couldn’t leave it behind. Into the suitcase it went.

The alarm clock followed. I had hated that thing, slamming it every morning with the hope it might finally break. They had cracked it, though, not me. A notebook with her number scribbled on the first page. A mug with a silly phrase that only made sense to my best friend and me. A postcard from Peru, a place I’d never been but always dreamed of visiting. Books I had read so many times I could recite them from memory. Her dress.

I threw these fragments of my life into the suitcase without thinking—broken, useless things that carried more weight than they should. I was packing my home, piece by piece.

The drive was tense. I stayed quiet, staring out the window at the forest. It was just like the forest from my childhood. The headlights illuminated the pine trees, their tall trunks stretching into the darkness. I remembered sitting in the backseat while my father drove, pretending he knew where he was going. Back then, it had felt like an adventure. Now, I had another one.

By the time we arrived, sentimentality had no place. The border loomed ahead, a line drawn between two worlds. People waved at me from the other side, urging me to hurry. I stepped cautiously onto the soft, churned earth. Behind me was fear, the rustle of book pages left scattered on the floor, the distant thud of boots on wooden floors, and people in gloves breaking down my door.

Right at the line dividing one «there» from another, I paused for a moment. Hesitated. Felt the weight of my home in my hand and took my final breath here. Then I stepped forward and exhaled. And then I inhaled again.

The people on the other side didn’t wear gloves. They took me by the arms, their hands warm and steady, and led me to safety. One of them offered to carry my suitcase. I refused.

We climbed into a car, the engine humming softly as we drove away.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?” one of them asked.

I nodded. A song played, its melody light and unfamiliar. Then, the cheerful voice of a radio host broke through: “Here are the news.”

We drove to a hotel, its towering fence casting long shadows in the fading light. I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle.