The apartment now looks unsafe. The peeled bare walls of the hall, the invisible presence of all those people who came here, bringing their terrible parcels - butterflies, wreaths, toy snakes - give rise to the feeling that I am a stranger, that I never became my own.

And, probably, the best thing would be to disappear from here altogether, moving in with your parents or in your grandmother's apartment, as planned.

I go through my few things, putting them in neat piles. The TV is full of mournful news and silly shows, so I quickly scroll through the channels and turn it off. It is not possible to enjoy...