Lena’s pockets were always heavy. In the left, a silver locket with a photo of her brother — the only family she still spoke to. In the right, a small notebook filled with lists: groceries she couldn’t afford, places she wanted to visit, things she’d never say out loud. And tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, folded so many times the paper was soft, was a letter of resignation she’d written months ago but never had the courage to hand in.

Her pockets told her story better than she ever could: love, longing, and fear of change.