I moved out of the rented house and checked into a hotel.

The front desk asked how many days I would stay, and I said I’d stay for now.
She hesitated for a moment and gave me a room key without an expiration date.
Friends found out and all called me crazy.
They said a month’s rent could cover two months’ mortgage, and I was working for the hotel.
I showed them my phone: “How many days did you argue with the landlord last month?”
He didn’t say anything.
My room has someone changing the sheets every day,
Takeout boxes are collected, and a broken light is fixed with a phone call.
No need to fix the toilet yourself, no need to look at the landlord’s face,
No trembling with anger and still having to pay.
Last week, I passed by the building I used to rent,
Instinctively wanted to avoid it,
Then suddenly realized I don’t need to go inside anymore.
Do you know that feeling? It’s like being released from prison.
Later, I saw a sentence:
A person’s life is just moving from one hotel to another.
The last room’s cleaning lady pushed the door open to sweep and said, “Next guest.”
I turned off my phone and lay on the bed.
The smell of the new sheets felt unfamiliar, but I slept peacefully.
Some buy a house to settle their body,
Some rent a house to place their soul.
Finally, this life is no longer under the weight of a deposit in a contract.
The front desk changed to the night shift.
The new girl was inserting a carnation into a vase.