Later, alone again, she realized: home was not a place. Duty was not a virtue. And regret and hope were just two pockets of the same worn coat.
“What do you carry?” she asked. “ Regret ,” he said. “But I’ve repacked it so often, it fits in a carry-on.” “I carry hope ,” she said. “But it’s leaking. I think I overfilled it.” wordfast
They didn’t say goodbye. Goodbye was too heavy, too final, a suitcase with a broken latch. Instead, she touched his sleeve. He nodded once. Later, alone again, she realized: home was not a place