This piece was born from personal experience - a quiet grief carried through constant moves, uncertain tomorrows, and the loss of what ‘home’ used to mean.

Every time life forced me to leave, I carried a little less with me - not just in belongings, but i Every time life forced me to leave, I carried a little less with me - not just in belongings, but in the feeling of belonging itself. Over time, it became harder to answer a simple question: Where is home? Because when you’re always on the move, home becomes a memory rather than a place. A room you once loved. A streetlight you walked under. A silence that used to feel safe.

I painted this girl resting her head on a tiny house, holding a key not to a real door, but to something she’s still looking for - stability, peace, roots. She’s tired. And yet, she still holds the key. Maybe that’s hope. Maybe it’s just all she has left. You begin to wonder if a real home still exists - or if it’s just something you carry within, like a memory, a key, or a dream.