The weight of luggage

Sophie was sitting on a bench by the seaside. Although the sea was not one she recognised, the fresh breeze on her face felt good. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, just like she used to do in yoga class. The waves rolled in, not violent, not calm either, somewhere in between, carrying a rhythm that made her restless. Beside her, a man sat in silence with his hands folded neatly over his lap. It took her a moment to see him fully. Her father.

She blinked slowly. He had been dead for years.

“Are you happy?” he asked, without turning his head, facing the horizon. His voice was casual yet concerned, as if they had been sitting like this for hours.

Somehow, the question startled Sophie more than his presence. She hesitated, picking at the seam of her coat. “Hmm. I don’t know,” she admitted. “Some days, yes. Other days, not really. And some others I just exist without too much purpose.”

Her father nodded, as though she had just confirmed something he had already suspected. “Happiness, Sophie, is not a permanent thing. It is more like the tide; it comes and goes, and even the tide leaves shells behind. Nonetheless, you must still know where you stand. Even if it is only for a moment.”

She wanted to ask him how he was here, how she could be speaking with him when she knew it was impossible. But the words would not come easy, or rather they would not come at all. Instead, she calmly said, “I left home to look for it. To look for happiness. To look for my place in the world, or something. I thought being an expat would give me that. I thought it would give me a life different from the one I had known. And a sense of belonging and contentment. I thought it would fulfill my dreams.”

“And, did it?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve traded belonging for movement.”

Her father finally turned to look at her. His green eyes were softer than she remembered, though still carrying that spark of teasing sharpness, something so characteristic about him. “Belonging can move with you, Sophie. If you let it.”

Suddenly, the sound of the waves filled the space between them. She could smell the salt, feel the grit of sand against her shoes, yet everything carried a muted glow, as though wrapped in gauze.

“Tell me,” he said, “what do you think about your age now? Once we talked about life after thirty, remember?”

She gave a short laugh. “What a memory you have! I think about it too much. Sometimes, it feels as if I haven’t invested my time wisely. Sometimes, it feels as if the number has already decided my worth, my chances, the shape of what’s left.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I see. And what shape do you imagine it to be?”

“Too narrow,” she said as she looked down. “Like a corridor getting tighter.”

Her father leaned back, resting an arm along the bench. “You are measuring life with the wrong ruler, Sophie. Age is not a corridor, it’s an open field. Fields don’t close, don’t narrow. Sometimes you see fences, but they are only suggestions, most of them are only shadows. Not walls.”

She felt something stir in her chest, anger, perhaps, or longing. “It’s not that simple. Everyone around me is settled in a business of their own, at the peak of a successful career, or buying homes. They have roots. They have created something tangible. I feel as though I’m still, say, wandering. But I don’t know if I’m moving forward.”

“Wandering is not wasted, Sophie,” he said firmly. “Do not mistake movement for emptiness.”

His certainty, his wisdom was disarming. She looked out at the sea again, but the horizon wavered like heat on asphalt. “What about the future?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

Her father tilted his head. “What do you want from it, Sophie?”

She hated that question. It was too big, too vague. “I don’t know,” she said again, her throat tightening. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Then start smaller. How is your luggage today?”

She turned to him, frowning. “My luggage?!”

“Yes.” He gestured at an invisible bag by his feet. “The weight you carry with you, the things you bring with you. Some bags are full of stones, others full of bread. What is in yours today, Sophie?”

She stared at him. The metaphor was so clearly him, so strangely tender that it made her chest ache. “I think …” She paused, searching for honesty, for the right words. “I think mine is too heavy. Way too heavy, I’d dare to say. Regrets, too many regrets. Doubts, countless of them. Unfinished things; I drag them everywhere. And I don’t know how to leave them behind.”

He smiled slightly. “Then take them out one by one, Sophie. Ask if each is still worth carrying. Some stones you can put down. Some you can even throw into the sea.”

Her eyes stung. “What if I let go of too much? What if I end up with nothing?”

His smile deepened. “Then, Sophie, you will have hands free to carry something new. Or, you will simply move lighter.”

They sat in silence again, the waves punctuating their thoughts. She wanted to say more, to ask him things she had not dared when he was alive. About his own regrets, about the years he never spoke of, about the years with her mother, whether he had ever feared his choices, whether he had truly been happy. But before she could, he spoke again.

“Sophie, whenever you feel uneasy, disoriented, or heavy,” he said gently, “return to these questions. Are you happy? What do you think of your age? What do you want for your future? And, how is your luggage today? If you answer them honestly, you will find your light. They will ease your uncertainty. Always remember, I love you, Sophie.”

The words sank into her like stones dropping into water, heavy, final, but also rippling outward. She wanted to hold on to them, to him, but even as she reached for his hand, the bench, the sea, all of it began to blur.

She woke up.

The room was dim, her sheets tangled around her legs. The silence was so stark it rang in her ears. Her father was gone, as he had been for years since he passed. She pressed a hand to her face, trembling.

It had only been a dream. A conversation that never happened.

And yet, the questions remained. They mirrored with startling clarity, as if engraved into her skin. Are you happy? What do you think of your age? What do you want for your future? How is your luggage today?

She realised then how much she had been carrying, how restless and unsure and fearful she had become. It was as though her father’s voice, though it was imagined, had cut through the noise she had not known she was drowning in.

Dreams dissolve, she thought, but some leave strong footprints.

She got up, poured herself a glass of water, and sat by the window. The city outside was waking. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel as though she were suffocating in a narrow corridor. Instead, there was a sense of space, of possibility. The luggage was still heavy, yes, but perhaps she could start unpacking it.

The conversation hadn’t happened. And still, it very much mattered.