a home that only exists in memory

i come from a city far away, where my childhood once lived inside a shabby little house that somehow still felt warm, where dinner always came with three dishes, my father spoke to me with a softness i thought would always be there, and the windows opened onto gentle sunlight.

for a long time, i thought i would grow up there, fall in love there, and eventually die there, too.

now it feels like nothing more than a stop along some uncertain journey, a place with no road leading back.

back then, life was not salaries, calculated handshakes, or deadlines. it was music playing through cheap speakers, laughter bursting open in the middle of the night, stupid jokes, and nameless affection for a few people who only stayed in my life long enough to leave again.

sometimes, some of them come back.

they return in neatly pressed shirts, carrying unfamiliar perfume and eyes that have learned how to value things more carefully. they speak softly now, with restraint. they ask whether i still write, whether i still dream, whether i am still capable of loving anyone.

i only smile.

no one really needs an honest answer to questions like that.

i used to think that sitting there, lighting a cigarette, and watching the sun sink behind rusted rooftops would be enough for a peaceful life.

the city beyond us was always spinning too fast. people talked about contracts, stocks, election campaigns, then violence, then the exchange rate of the dollars.

all i wanted were small, useless stories. laughter going off like firecrackers. and the strange, aching desire for a plate of room temperature steamed rice with boiled pork and fish sauce.