“And what is it that you want?”

“Home. To go home.”

And here she was, under the red sky — home. The stones had been worn, moss grown over, and dandelions had conquered every last inch of the yard. There was no car in the driveway. 

“It’s been years.”

“I know. I know.”

She straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, into the dandelions. One step in front of the other, wading through the yellow, the weight heavier and heavier with every inch closer to it. The door was ajar. 

“You can’t go back to before. That place doesn’t exist anymore.”

“I need to go. Please.”

Hand hovered over the wood, shaking. The sky was so violently red. 

“You know that I love you, right?”

“You can’t stop me from this.”

“I know. And I won’t.”

She pushed the door open. 

The prophecy came true: it was not the same. The furniture was there, as she had left it, and the table had the same mugs save one. The windowsill held dead succulents, and the photos on the wall were as she had remembered. There were no new ones, not even from the years she had been gone. The two chairs by the television remained exactly where they had always been. 

But was this place always this small? And they were gone. 

They had been gone for a very long time.

And the sky was very, very red. The wind whispered to her, begging her to go. This place is not your home anymore. You can go back again and again, but they will never be sitting in those chairs. 

“And where is my home now?”

But she knew. She saw the waves washing over the sand. There was a new place ready for her, and no, they would not be there nor would they ever be there, but it was a place and a person and a new memory and it was good. It was good. But it was different. 

Home is not a permanent thing, but a place borrowed. She was overdue to give it back.