Packing Lightly

That old house was almost too perfect. The kind of perfect that made people slow down and stare in wonder. There was a calm serenity just being nearby. Sunflowers taller than the fences, always facing the street like they were standing at attention waiting for your smile. A porch swing that creaked softly in the breeze though rarely sat occupied. The paint on the door was the shade of a summer sky, bright and cheerful even on cloudy days.

For years, people would ask him if it was magical, supernatural even. They’d make believe as though some storybook grandmother lived inside, baking pies and humming old songs to her garden. It looked like the kind of place where nothing bad could ever happen.

Here today, standing outside with his duffel slung over one shoulder, he knew how easy it was to dress a wound in flowers. The house itself had always been a liar.

He had spent the last three days convincing himself he wouldn’t leave. The three before that? Convincing himself he would. The house itself seemed to argue with him every time he walked to the door or stared out the windows. Sunlight poured through the glass, filling every room with warmth and light. The air itself was a near mystical blend of teas, incense, and herbs. Everything so curated and manufactured — the kind of artificial comfort that made guests smile in awe without so much as second step in the house. As if the house itself was whispering – calling out – “You’re safe here.”

He took one last look over his shoulder before stepping off the porch. If some stranger had been watching, they would’ve seen a man walking away from paradise — leaving comfort, leaving love, leaving something rare and gentle. They would’ve thought he was crazy for giving it up. He knew how carefully crafted the house had become, and a part of him wanted to believe in the safety it offered even as he took another step towards the door. Reached for the handle.

He knew better.

The house was beautiful, sure. As is a masterful painting hung over a crack in the wall. A precious statue, shattered and re-formed. The kind of beauty you don’t dare disturb because, if you do, the whole thing might collapse in your hands. And he had spent his whole damn life worrying about the collapse.

The door, typically silent and well-maintained, let out the most subtle of squeaks as if to protest as he pulled the car door closed behind him, nestling in to the familiar faded seats. He drove slowly through town, past the bakery where the windows were always fogged up from cinnamon rolls and coffee. Past the museum with the crooked shelves and the steps that had needed fixing since before he was born. Even the morning air smelled like unshakable memories — warm bread, cut grass, rain on hot pavement. He had loved this place once. Maybe part of him still did, the same way you love something that tried to love you back but didn’t know how.

It was right around the time the last of the buildings he was familiar with slipped out of his rear-view mirror that he felt it — a strange, unsettling lightness. Like he’d left something behind without meaning to. Something important.

He pulled into a gas station. What could it have been? He had been so careful, so meticulous to never have to return against his will. He dug through his bag, flipped through the book he’d packed, patted his jeans. Phone, wallet, keys — all there. He stood by the car, staring back down the road, trying to name what was missing.

The wind carried only silence. Something was missing.

He drove on. With each passing mile marker he found himself drifting towards thoughts of his journey. He’d expected quite the opposite — expected his brain to fill up with guilt, doubt, some desperate need to turn around. Expected the memory of what he had forgotten to disrupt his plans for freedom.

It was the warm glow of the diner’s windows that made him pull in. He’d considered a quick bite at a fast food place. Maybe a greasy burger washed down with an over-sugared soft drink. But something about the under-crowded parking lot and promise of a late-night slice of pie changed his mind. Inside, couples sat in worn booths, splitting milkshakes and fries. A waitress smiled at him like he belonged there, like the world had already decided he was welcome.

He ordered a coffee he didn’t even want just to have a reason to sit. And that’s when he felt it again — that absence. Not a longing, but a void. Like something had been strapped to his back for so long, he didn’t know what life felt like without it.

It wasn’t until midnight, driving through miles of dark nothing with no distractions or activity to focus on, that the truth started to take shape. He -had- left something behind in that house.

Not a jacket or a notebook or some old piece of junk in the corner of the attic. No, this was something else — something he had carried under his skin for years, something that shaped the way he spoke, the way he stayed quiet, the way he gave too much and took too little.

The house had looked like safety. The town had smelled like home. The memories had hummed lullabies of false peace and serenity. But under all that beauty was a shadow only he could see — a ghost stitched to his soul, the one that whispered his name in the dark and made him second-guess every moment of peace, happiness, or good fortune.

He hadn’t packed it. He hadn’t even noticed when it slipped free. And now, deep in that house with the perfect porch and the friendly sunflowers. Somewhere among the inviting swing and the beautifully painted door a hundred miles behind him, it all sits. The thing he forgot to bring. Years of trauma.

And he has no reason to turn back.