People talk about exile as if it requires passports, train tickets, and crossing oceans. But the most profound migrations happen within the same postal code.

You walk down the exact same alleyways you ran through five years ago. The tea stalls are still brewing in brass kettles; the neon signs still flicker at dusk; the traffic still hums its chaotic hymn. Yet you are a stranger walking through a museum of your own past life.

The geography remains identical, but the emotional coordinates have shifted by lightyears. You have moved away without ever packing a suitcase.

The city does not forget you; it simply holds your ghosts with quiet indifference while you learn to live among them.