Maldita Mudanza

There is the quiet smoke of a campfire in this story and the smell of someone else's home, which still feels painfully familiar. It is about how warmth is born in some hands, while others pack a suitcase. Things are packed into a bag, not into life, and this makes the emptiness palpable. In every question about walls, floors and carpets, there is a longing for what could have been shared but has become alien. It is not about defeat or envy, but rather about recognition: sometimes it is not love that leaves, but the person who was unable to stay. And then even the most beautiful house seems like a place where you do not belong.