Thirty-Six Pages of Bank Receipts and the Chicago Mortgage Transfer I Finally Canceled

Behind me, past the open glass doors, the apartment was completely still.

In the bedroom closet, my two heavy suitcases stood next to each other against the wall, empty and clean.

I’d unpacked them on my first night in Lisbon, hanging my coats in the pine wardrobe and tucking my shoes into the lower drawers.

The thirty-six bank receipts, the canceled transfer records and the digital copies of the quitclaim deed were buried deep in an encrypted archive I hadn’t opened in two weeks.

The phone in my pocket stayed still.