To call herself "lost" would be to mistake wandering for exile. Lostness, she decided, could be a kind of permission: permission to unlearn the taut roles she had practiced for years, permission to try on new shapes and see which fit. In the evenings she walked without destination, letting the city rearrange itself around her. Faces blurred into watercolor; names were not required. Once, beneath an overpass, she stopped to watch a man coax a stray dog back into a pocket of safety. The scene felt like a parable written in real time—care given freely, not because a title demanded it, but because a human heart chose to.