The night was thick with mist, swallowing the moonlight before it could touch the earth. Jonah pulled his coat tighter, his breath forming ghosts in the air. He had walked this path before—years ago, when his world was smaller and his dreams were too big for his pockets. Now, he walked it again, but the air smelled different.
The road to his grandmother’s house had changed, or maybe he had. The towering mango trees that once shaded him as a child were now mere skeletons of their former selves, their branches reaching out like desperate hands. The footpath was narrower, strangled by weeds and memories.
Jonah had left this village ten years ago, chasing the city’s neon promises, vowing never to return. He had exchanged the whisper of rustling leaves for the honk of impatient traffic, the warmth of familiar faces for the cold indifference of strangers. Yet, here he was, called back by a single letter written in his grandmother’s frail, shaky handwriting.
"Come home. It’s time."
The house stood at the end of the path, the lantern glow in the window flickering like an old heartbeat. As he stepped onto the creaky wooden porch, the door opened before he could knock. His grandmother stood there, her eyes holding time itself.
“You came,” she said, her voice a mixture of relief and quiet understanding.
Jonah nodded, the lump in his throat making words impossible. He had spent a decade running, only to realize that home was the one thing he couldn’t outrun.
He stepped inside, and the echoes of the forgotten path followed, weaving themselves into his story once more.
"Image was sourced from pixabay"