**The Calculus of Laundry Day**

Barcelona, 09:04 AM

I’m sorting laundry when it hits me—the scent of Lisbon’s laundry detergent still clinging to my clothes, stubborn as a memory.

It’s a mundane revelation, standing in my tiny lavandería with socks in one hand and a wrinkled blouse in the other. The blouse still smells faintly of salt air and ginginha, even after the wash. I press it to my face and inhale, half-expecting to hear the mournful twang of a fado guitar.

Polilla watches from her perch on the drying rack, head cocked as if to say, “¿Otra vez con esto?” Again with this?

But it’s not nostalgia. Not exactly. It’s the realization that I’m no longer trying to scrub away the traces of where I’ve been. The old Sofia would’ve doused everything in vinegar, desperate to return to some imagined neutral state. The new Sofia folds the blouse carefully, letting it hold onto what it wants to keep.

Lina texts: “Café? Hay un nuevo lugar en Gràcia que huele a México.” There’s a new place that smells like Mexico.

I hesitate, then reply: “Dame una hora. Tengo que terminar algo.” Give me an hour. I have to finish something.

What I don’t say: I’m learning to leave space in my suitcase—and my schedule—for the unexpected. The blouse goes into the drawer, still faintly oceanic. The socks, still dusted with Lisbon’s cobblestone grit, are tucked into my boots for next time.

Polilla flutters onto my shoulder as I leave, her wings brushing my cheek like a reminder: roots and wings aren’t opposites. They’re the same thing, just seen from different angles.

—Sofia