The room was quiet when I arrived. I don't know if he had forgotten his suitcase and left for good or if he was going to come back any moment to pick it up, after finishing the last task that was still holding him in this city. Perhaps that suitcase was full of memories and had been deposited in that instant of doubt, before leaving what had been his home in recent years. The memories weighed so heavily! Maybe it was better to leave without luggage, without dragging those experiences that had helped him make that difficult decision.
Home was nice, a place to rest and dream. There was that modest armchair, in which he felt like the king of his world. From there he felt safe: of what he was, of what he had been, of what he could become. Everything was in his favor, why not? And in that privileged place, silence reigned more than he did: a place without noise, where that silence could be touched, felt and drawn and where the zenithal light invaded the soul and the different rooms were slowly guessed.
He left nothing behind, he took everything with him. The suitcase remained in that unforgettable space: exactly in his heart.