I pass the same man every morning at the vending machine near the station, always buying a can of coffee, always alone. After my husband died, I thought escape would be moving somewhere quiet, without memories. But the quiet followed me, not the other way around. Freedom isn’t leaving, I think—it’s noticing how the light hits the tatami at ten o’clock, or how the old cashier remembers my order without asking. You don’t escape into peace. You slow down enough to find it in what you already carry. Sometimes I wonder if that man by the vending machine is searching for something too, or if he’s already found it and just hasn’t noticed.