Books, clothes, shoes—each folded and stacked with precision. Cutlery aligned like soldiers, dishes nested like secrets. His journal, a map of scattered thoughts, tucked between pages of time. He arranged anxiety beside love, gods beside demons, fears beside truths. His boss, his mother—filed under obligations. Sorrows and deprivations, hypocrisies and pains—he placed them gently in drawers, basements, and the folds of old sheets.

He sorted sleep into symptoms, dreams into shadows. Lies were labeled and stored in the corners of memory, deceptions wrapped in silence. Every word he spoke carried the weight of the others, each syllable echoing through the bedroom like a prayer for release.

And in his chest—his final archive—he wept. Not for disorder, but for the freedom that never fit on any shelf. ❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer