Diara stood in the middle of her small but warm living room, her luggage neatly packed by the door. The suitcase felt heavier than its weight, sex inside it was not just clothes, shoes, and personal items, but the years of quiet hopes, sacrifices, and dreams she had carried with her. She turned toward the wall, where a framed photograph of her parents hung. Their smiles, forever frozen in time, seemed to watch her closely.
"Dad, Mum," she whispered, her voice barely steady. "I'll make you proud."
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the frame, as though she could reach into the picture and touch them again. For a moment, she closed her eyes, drawing strength from the thought of them, before exhaling slowly. Then she turned, picked up her luggage handle, and headed out the door.
