I followed the old woman through the narrow alleys, far from the bustling markets and noisy streets. She moved slowly, but her steps were steady—like she knew every corner of this place. It felt like we were sinking into a deeper layer of this world. A layer only known to those familiar with it... or to someone lost, like me.
Suddenly, she looked at me and asked:
"First time spending a night under a roof here, isn't it?"
I looked at her silently, then just nodded.
She gave a slight nod in return and kept walking.
After a few more minutes of walking, we stopped in front of a small wooden door, worn by time but still standing firm. Above it hung a faded sign, barely legible—but the name of the place was clear enough: Grain Inn.
She knocked three times, in a specific pattern. Another elderly woman, shorter in stature, opened the door. They exchanged a silent glance, then the woman looked at me and said:
"Five dollars. No less. One room. No questions. Deal?"
I paused for a moment, thinking about the amount. Five dollars wasn't exactly cheap for me, but it wasn't too much either. I remembered the hundred dollars I had earned through hard work and knew I could afford this night—for the rest I badly needed.
"Deal," I said.
Before stepping inside, I turned around for a brief moment and looked back—toward the road leading to the forest that had been my first shelter since arriving in this world.
I said goodbye in silence, as if I were parting with a piece of myself. My heart heavy with a strange longing... but filled with hope.
I paid the fee and followed the woman inside.
The air inside was warm. Not because of a heater—there wasn't one—but because of the stillness and peace that filled the space. The walls were made of clay, the floors simply covered, and the rooms separated by old curtains. It wasn't a hotel—it was a refuge.
But it was far better than the forest.
We passed a tiny kitchen in the corner. It looked very basic, with an old, slightly rusty stove, and metal pots piled on a worn wooden table. The smell of simple food hung in the air—a mix of fresh bread and light stew.
The kitchen felt like the heart of the inn. Modest as it was, it was where people might gather from time to time.
I entered my room. It was small, with a wooden bed covered in a gray blanket, and a table with a half-burned candle on top. No windows. No mirror.
Just me—and silence.
I sat on the bed and looked around quietly. The place was painfully simple. It lacked anything that could give me real warmth.
In that moment, an image of my old room returned to me...
The bed I used to roll around in without a care. The wide windows that let the morning light flood in. The smell of books. My family photos hanging on the walls. Even the dim ceiling light I once thought too weak... how warm it really was.
A bitter tightness formed in my throat, like a knot I hadn't noticed until now.
I missed it. I missed everything.
My home... my family... my life.
But even through that pain, I didn't let it consume me.
There was a faint feeling—like a distant candle at the end of a long tunnel—telling me this wasn't the end of the road... but its beginning.
I smiled, tired, and lay down on the rough bed. I closed my eyes.
Maybe this wasn't my home... but I had taken my first step on the road back to it—no matter how far it was.