Returning Home
Everything was same, yet everything changed.
The shops were all closed, and the sidewalks were empty.
Mike, an accountant at the paper factory, saw nothing but his own shadow while walking down the road on his way home.
The deafening silence spoke more to him than the sound of the chilling breeze.
Always taking the same route to his home, the streetlights flickered the same way every time he crossed them. The diner across the street closed as always at the same time, like clockwork.
Today was no different. The town expected nothing of him as always.
After walking down the familiar streets, he remembers the house will be empty tonight without his wife and daughter.
Instead of rushing home, he slows down and changes his course towards the park.
He settles on the park bench, gazing at the moonlight, taking in the park’s stillness, alone there on Friday eve, when most people were winding down for the week with their families.
He pulls out his book, “The Words”, about a man who wrote a book and then lost it, resuming at the last read page:
…
He knew the life he wanted, he knew what he had to do to get it…
…
He couldn’t remember sleeping or eating. The words simply poured out of him, a stream that he could not control, nor question where they came from. The words became form, the form became whole, and after two weeks, it was finished.
He kept sitting still for some time, doing nothing, just taking in the words from the book, and felt a lump in his throat…
Slowly, he took out a pen and a notebook from his bag and began writing. He wrote whatever came to him, not judging what he was writing, and kept writing till his heart was no longer heavy.
It was 10 PM when he looked up from the notebook.
He sat there for a few minutes more and then stood up to walk towards his home.
The breeze didn’t seem to be as chilling anymore, as if it had done its job.