That day, we left early. No one said goodbye to the house. My mother turned once, then didn’t look again. I asked if we would come back. She said nothing, only held my wrist tighter. On the road, people walked without talking. Some carried bags. Some carried nothing. I remember feeling ashamed because I was hungry. When we reached the river, I realized I hadn’t cried at all. Not then. I cried years later, when I understood we hadn’t survived a journey. We had survived the end of a life we never got to finish.