I’m back home. The smell is the same, but they’ve changed the sofa with a green cover that I used to see every day since I was four. Our home always has its specific smell. It’s a mix of freshness, care, and drama. The little statues of men on the wall of the entrance hall seem older. They always were white, so I can’t say anything about their hair. I used to get a little scared of them when I was a kid. They look straight into your soul, so you can never run away.

My grandparents’ library covers the whole wall in the living room, as it always has. There are a bunch of books in various languages with colorful covers. I used to exercise my mind by remembering the correct sequence of colors. My mom just added a new bookshelf with my favorite authors, increasing the number of yellow ones because of my love for collecting all my favorite novels from the same series.

It’s already 8 PM, but sunlight is still filling the house. On the walls, I can recognize my shadow. I’m starting to play with it. It seems childish. As a kid, I used to know when to stop reading by the sunlight slowly leaving our home. So did I. I just slowly left my home to find myself. I did it and came back—to the roots, to the place with orange walls and big armchairs I used to sleep in during the afternoons. I woke up to the sounds of the kitchen and found my mom setting the table for dinner, with fresh vegetables, meat, and anything I like. At that moment, I feel life inside me the most, being covered with care and love.

A little table in the kitchen always made me want to sit around and smoke, even though my family were non-smokers. And now, here I am, making coffee for myself in the empty kitchen of the empty house, to provide myself with company to have a cigarette.