The radiator still hissed.
Gray light still exposed dust along the baseboard.
But the lock was mine.
The money in my account was mine.
The silence in the room was mine too—not the silence of people too afraid to speak, but the quiet that comes when no one else is allowed to define your safety.
At 8:12 a.m., I opened my banking app.
The numbers were ordinary.
For the first time, ordinary felt like freedom.
