Leaving the crowded station, I hesitantly climb into the bus. The tattered seats look familiar. I get a seat next to the window. There is no glass to protect me from my thoughts.
Through the journey, the cool wind runs his reassuring hand against my hair.
Entangled in my own thoughts, I limp off the bus and wait at the crossroads.
Traffic comes to a standstill, telling me I own the road ahead.
I struggle to breathe as the air chokes my lungs. The little old black bird swirls around me. Its white tipped feathers exude an infectious energy.
I enter the half-open gates, and the watchman smiles his best. Even as nostalgia fills my eyes, ‘Welcome home!’ he says.