* – from a novel by Kazuo Ishiguro
The trip back home was a rather short, uneventful one. There seemed to be no big difference in the sights I was used to: the houses that line the highway, green fields as far as the eye can see, markets bustling with traders and shoppers. As I was watching some old Fernando Poe, Jr. movie, I looked out the window and saw, once more, the very familiar sight of home.
Once again, it was the familiar sight of fog that welcomed me back. From behind the clouds, I could barely make out the jagged edges of the mountains that remind me of who I am, and where I came from.
Ah, home. Indeed.