🏠 The House at the End of the Signal
The address took me to a one-story beige house with a cracked driveway and — wait for it — a line of other suitcases stacked near the porch.
Not just mine. Dozens.
Red. Blue. Floral-print. A Samsonite with a “Paris 2023” tag.
It looked like a luggage thrift shop run by raccoons.
I felt my heart pounding through my ribs. Should I knock? Call 911? Or maybe I’d just watched too many true crime TikToks.
Either way, I wasn’t leaving.