Escape isn’t a door, it’s a silence. The kind that comes after the checkpoint, after the phone goes dark, after your name stops appearing in forms. I’d walk without papers, not toward a border, but toward a street where no one asks for them. Where my daughter can study whatever she wants, not just what the ministry allows. Where my wife laughs without first checking who might hear. I wouldn’t run. I’d just stop being watched. That’s the only escape left — becoming irrelevant to power, invisible on purpose.
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