The new house loomed, a stark, unfamiliar silhouette against the Los Angeles sky. After hours of driving and a long flight, the only thing I craved was my old bed, my old room, my old life. But here we were, at St. San Anseline Ave 1211, a place that felt less like a home and more like a temporary stop on a journey I never wanted to take.

Mommy, ever the optimist, chirped about the low price and the cleaning service, while Mrs. Ryanaa, the real estate agent, beamed beside her. I just nodded, feigning interest as they discussed the previous owner's mysterious departure. Up in my chosen room, the dusty iron bed groaned under my weight, a silent protest against my presence. I unpacked, the quiet hum of the unfamiliar house a constant reminder of how far I was from everything I knew.