Prologue — The Road Back

There are places you stop visiting long before you stop remembering them.

That afternoon, I found myself walking toward one of those places.

The pavement beneath my shoes was cracked in places, patched in others. Weeds had pushed through the narrow spaces near the curb. I kept my eyes lowered as I walked, following one faded rectangle of concrete after another as if the road itself were giving me instructions.

I had taken this route countless times when I was younger.

Back then, my legs were shorter, afternoons seemed longer, and going home before sunset felt like surrendering precious hours of freedom.

Now, I walked slowly.

Maybe I was afraid that if I looked up too soon, the place ahead would be different.

Or maybe I was afraid it wouldn't be.

Neither possibility sounded particularly comforting.

A bicycle bell rang somewhere behind me. I stepped aside without looking. A child laughed from across the street. The sound faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant noise of traffic.

Then, little by little, I raised my head.

The trees came first.

Then the old fence.

Then the playground.

And beyond it, almost exactly where my memory had left it—

the swing.

I stopped.

For a moment, the afternoon in front of me disappeared.

The faded metal regained its color.

The trees became smaller.

The road behind me filled with voices I had not heard in years.

And suddenly—

I was a child again.

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