I found the perfect apartment: cheap, quiet, near work. Signed the lease, packed, told everyone I was moving. The day before move-in, the landlord called: mistake, it went to someone else. I was furious, embarrassed, and had to unpack.
A week later, I learned that apartment flooded catastrophically—plumbing failure soaked walls, ruined floors, destroyed neighbors’ furniture. My disaster became a dodged bullet. Sitting amid half-unpacked boxes, I felt stunned, grateful, amused by life’s timing.
The disappointment lingered. Mornings carried the weight of stalled plans—mugs in newspaper, boxes like paused dreams. But slowly, calm returned. I learned to trust closed doors.
Soon, I found a sunlit studio near a park. Not the cheapest or biggest, but warm, honest, right. The move went smoothly. Carrying the first box in, I smiled: the universe wasn’t saying “no,” but “wait, something better.”
My first morning there, soft light filled the room. The crushing setback had led me exactly where I needed to be. Life isn’t just moving forward; it’s moving at the right time.
