The suitcase stood in the hallway for months.
Packed. Ready.
Dust settled on the clasps.
Shoes passed it every day.
No one remembered what was inside.
No one opened it.
At night it sometimes breathed
a soft leather movement,
like something turning in sleep.
Not much.
Just enough to remind the hallway
that departures still existed.
One day we opened it.
Empty.
The room felt suddenly wider,
as if whatever had been waiting inside
had already left
and the suitcase
was the last thing
to notice.