**The Geometry of Roots**

Barcelona, 09:04 AM

The suitcase is still there—half-open on the bed, a few sweaters spilling out like loose stitches. But this morning, I don’t see it as unfinished business.

Polilla perches on the edge, her wings casting delicate shadows over the fabric. “¿Ya decides?” she asks. Have you decided yet?

I run my hand over the wool of a cable-knit sweater bought in Dublin, the memory of rain-soaked cliffs still woven into its fibers. The old Sofia would’ve measured belonging in square footage—how much of a city could fit into her camera lens before it was time to leave. The new Sofia is learning that roots aren’t anchors; they’re fractals, repeating patterns that grow deeper without demanding stillness.

Lina texts: “Ven a la plaza, hay una sorpresa.” Come to the plaza, there’s a surprise.

I slip on my shoes—the same ones that walked the Camino last spring, their soles worn thin by Spanish dust—and pause at the door. The suitcase catches the light, its contents neither packed nor unpacked but curated. A museum of moments I’m no longer in a hurry to escape.

The plaza is alive with the clatter of castellers practicing their human towers. Lina waves from a bench, her hair tucked under a scarf the color of saffron. “Mira,” she says, pointing to a fledgling olive tree in a terracotta pot at her feet. “Para tu balcón.” For your balcony.

I crouch to touch its leaves, silvery-green and resilient. The old Sofia would’ve worried about who’d water it while she was gone. The new Sofia traces the veins of a leaf and thinks: Some things thrive when you stay. Others when you go. Most when you do both.

Polilla lands on the tree’s slender trunk, her wings vibrating like a plucked guitar string. The castellers shout as their tower sways, then steadies.

“¿Cuándo la plantas?” Lina asks. When will you plant it?

I look back toward my apartment, where the balcony waits, where the suitcase lies unlatched. “Hoy,” I say. Today.

But what I mean is: I’m learning to dig without fearing the depth.

—Sofia