A path of poplars, perfectly adapted to the infinite vanishing point, like an autumnal corridor to nostalgia. The cold wind slides over them, tearing off their trunks and creating a carpet of leaves like a car driving along, black and majestic, raising dust and memories of the person riding in the back seat, returning to the place where he grew up.
The spectral reflection of the light coming through the high golden roofs is imprinted through the windows of her face, like a dynamic tattoo, like the passage of time and the wandering of her mind backwards in search of forgotten moments that only come to life in their original environment.
The roar of the engine was silenced, causing its echo to carry through the forest and leaving an eerie silence in its place, for his ears were already accustomed to the noise and vibration of the car during the two and a half hour drive.
Two suitcases, the necessary luggage for a stay as short as a breath and as long as a life. Time enough to find themselves as before, wandering through the spacious rooms of this house. To discover the part of their childlike purity that had been corrupted when she left them.
When the smell of old car smoke is gone, he stands up and looks at the house, the forest and the sky, which is so clear he can talk directly to God. "Neverland," as it is called in fairy tales, is what I prefer to call home.
