Catherine Hokin

“their belongings packed up, the house felt like a stranger. Inge wandered through the shadowy rooms and could barely remember how they had looked. The furniture Max had dismissed as not worth the cost of moving hunkered under draped white dust sheets. Packing cases lined up across the bare floors in neat rows. It looks like a cemetery. Inge’s nerves were on edge. She had spent the last four weeks counting the days, expecting the trip to Berlin to be derailed on a whim, the same way she suspected Max had granted it. Now there was only one night left and its hours stretched endlessly. She had given up trying to sleep, given in instead to her need to check and recheck every last inch of the arrangements. Everything was, of course, as it should be. Her suitcase still waited in the hall, Wolf’s smaller one beside it. The tickets were still safe in her handbag, the travel papers stamped for exiting Argentina and entering Germany ready in their wallet. The sight of them”
― Catherine Hokin, The Fortunate Ones