Temporary. Functional. Disposable.
Ronan dropped his duffel in the larger bedroom without ceremony.
I took the smaller room at the end of the hallway.
Two single beds. Two dressers. One narrow closet.
One shared bathroom.
We unpacked in silence at first.
Ronan moved into the kitchen area and claimed the counter as his workstation.
He spread out takeout menus — research for food options that wouldn’t require regular deliveries tied to our names — and opened the encrypted laptop issued by the Bureau.
He adjusted settings.
Connected to secure networks.
Ran background system checks.
I moved methodically through my room. Hanging clothes in neat rows inside the narrow wardrobe.
Aligning toiletries on the dresser with military precision.
Plugging in the burner phone beside my bed.
I kept my movements structured.
Routine gave my hands purpose. Purpose kept my thoughts from spiraling.
When the last shirt was folded and placed in the drawer, the silence in the room shifted.
It became heavier.
It pressed against memories I had been holding at bay since landing.
Four years.
The number echoed in my head like a countdown that had already passed.
My child would have been four now.
Four years old.
Walking.
Probably running. Asking constant questions.
Pointing at airplanes. Laughing at things adults no longer found funny.
Maybe stubborn. Maybe curious. Maybe loud.
I imagined tiny hands grabbing my fingers.
A small voice calling out —
“Mama.”
