Her childhood home is an ordinary brick-and-mortar house, one of the many boxes of matches scattered on the outskirts of town. The white walls have turned dirty-grey and the corners weathered in time. The smallest house in town, but the most famous one, for the few lime trees that grow in front of it.
The street has waited for tarmac almost a decade and fresh potholes have claimed their place after the first snow.
The childhood passed chasing butterflies in the garden instead of doing her homework, and gazing at the stars well past her bed time.
Home is where your heart is, they say. She has left the house and followed her heart to find a home and been looking for the right place ever since.
She has lived in a megapolis with the widest of boulevards and the most blazing neon lights. A place of wealth and indulgence, of an endless feast. She has moved to a sleepy village. It turns out that the neighbours’ walls have ears. Silence entombs her like an open prison.
She has lived in a wooden cabin on the finest of golden beaches with sunbathed palms but the sun scorched her. Like a mermaid, she wishes to hide under the turquoise waves but the expanse would drowned her.
She has lived on the highest of snow cupped peaks where neither a snow leopard can climb nor a vulture can fly over. The best place to gaze at the stars it is, and to leave behind the dark world. But the beauty blinds her and the frost bites her flesh.
Like a bird on the wing, she soar in the sky across borders to bridge the separate parts of her life.
Now, she has grown old. She goes back to the small house with the lime trees. One life to realise where her heart has always been.
They have knocked it down to make room for a modern block of flats. A cafe, made of glass and steel, sits on the corner. The huge TV screen on the wall hums as an artificial heart. She has dinner and stare at the piles of rubble. Most of the lime trees are cut off. The trunks, hollow and rotten, jut up. With the car engines revving and horn honking, the evening feels ultramodern.
She leaves the cafe at sun set. Could she see any stars here with all the light pollution? she wonders and gazes up. A car hits her. The driver runs. A crowd gathers at the scene for about half an hour. The face keeps the wonder in the eyes.
As the driver turns to be a young lad, a son of a very important person, and nobody claims the body, the event is deemed an act of God.
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