The night is old. Its not dark though. The moonlight bathes the sleeping world with a faint silvery glow, which seems eerily too bright, to my wide-open eyes. I glance furtively around. There is no sign of movement. The night is still. The carpet of dry fallen leaves under the trees which crackle like gunshots at the lightest step all lie quietly, waiting for me to make my move to emphatically announce their acoustic disdain for my nightly pursuits.
I think again. Its been so long. I am ashamed. Do I even have a right to be back? Would those well-worn pathways and hand-plastered walls remember me? Would they hate me for abandoning them? Would they welcome me - the prodigal son, or disown me as I deserved? Deep down, I was scared to answer my own questions. I guess that was why I chose to come back at this un-godly hour. And that was why I was crouched uncomfortably in the fuchsia bush outside. I wanted this to be a furtive visit. I did not want anyone to know that I came back. I did not want anyone to ask me what it meant. I wanted this for myself - pure and simple.
I knew I had to make my move soon. The faint fingers of dawn were not too far away. I was running out of time. I took a deep breath. I stood up. As if on cue, a faint breeze started to blow. A whiff of an old familiar scent wafted through the cold night air towards me. I could not quite place what it was of, but I knew then, at that moment, that I was back home. I began to walk.
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