Standing in the center of her tiny, one-bedroom apartment, Amara felt like a ghost haunting her own life. It was a humble space, a third-floor walk-up with a view of a brick wall and a radiator that clanked like a dying machine every time the temperature dropped.
For years, this had been her fortress. It was the place she had retreated to after grueling double shifts, the place where she had counted her pennies and cried in private, and the only place on earth where she didn't have to answer to anyone. Every mismatched piece of furniture, every scuffed floorboard, and every book on the sagging shelves was a trophy of her independence.
Now, it was just a collection of cardboard boxes and hollow echoes.
