Perfume from Alex’s mother still bloomed in the linens; marks in the wooden walls traced with a finger each day. A month had passed since moving into the cabin. Childhood here was arrival and departure, a stark contrast to the city, swapped back and forth between parents, adapting and retracting at each commute. Looking out from the dusty kitchen window, the open glade’s olive hue shone through old trunks. She’d called it Alex’s roaming grounds, a place to be free from burdens, a wild fawn practising jumps, foraging, and returning to the safety of their parent when called; always close by. Alex stood behind the glass, palm flat against the cold pane. That life had been resurrected now, but familiarity was beyond reach; a warren of cabinets, strange sounds, tap water with no taste. The alternating trade through youth had ceased abruptly, the city taking custody, consuming; it burdened with a cacophony of bodies and artificial claws of money, double shifts, rent notices, rush hour, pressed against concrete progress, trees calling beyond the monotone. Unpacking was a broken conveyor; often bitten lip reopened to bleed. How could anyone return to somewhere lost so completely and resume living? But at that moment, the answer strayed into the roaming grounds. Memory took form.

Charlie pushed cold hands into rough pockets, light sweat beading in the warm breeze. Acorns from yesterday’s walk tumbled between fingers. Crossing the glade was normal, regular, a thousand times repeated. But the purpose was new, and old. Would they be remembered? What value does living in the forest have compared to navigating faces of skyscrapers? Perhaps it was foolish to expect recognition, even to hope. Morning dew soaked shoes as the overgrown trail split toward the cabin. With each step, the distance closed and breath shortened.

Questions scattered with birds as the door flew open, and Alex poured into Charlie’s arms.