October leaves fall like stars from the sky, too numerous to count, like my futile attempts to tally time. Time is a measured stride walking along one side. Those who wait see the ways of coming, those who depart see the mist in sting. Mist shrouds the windows as mama opens the fireplace and drapes an old, dragon-carved blanket, once my childhood favourite, over aging skin. Hasn't yet dialed the phone, hasn't yet redialed the untouched call reminders, hasn't yet returned, home.

In 2023 winter I ventured alone in the East of England, where I shall soon embrace the early onset of evening’s shade. Leaving the Sainsbury’s with bread and water, I notice a nearby bistro hanging a Christmas sign: Knock Knock, who’s there? Snow, Snow, who? The Halloween tastings, the Christmas trimmings, times are now open. I sit in the library and see a dormer. Outside, leaves turn to red and sway gently in the breeze. Within, the orange hues fall into coffee and milk.

Once I was in the window and told mama I crave the world beyond.

Now I sit by the window, the freshness commingles with fragments from afar.

And distantly, home is becoming the nebulous world beyond.