Home Is Where the Heart Is. (Private)

Home; it wasn’t much, just a cabin in the woods of North America. Thurstan had purchased this house sixty-three years ago to the day. He couldn’t really remember that last time he’d been here in Washington State. Even though it was just a year ago that he’d returned, he never really did much. It was the only chance he really got to be truly alone with himself. It was a nice feeling to be back in a place like this, especially after travelling by boat from Japan.

As the Thurstan tore up the soft dirt road on his white and navy Kawasaki Ninja, the air filled with dust and a pair of dear bolted into the trees. The 998 cc engine whined all the way up the path only halting when the speedy motorbike came to rest in the front driveway. He tapped the kickstand with his foot, propping the vehicle up so he could get off with confidence that it wasn’t going to collapse onto the ground. Thurstan held the right wing of his black, mirror-lensed riding glasses between his thumb and middle finger then propped them up on the top of his head.

He looked up at the sky for a brief moment, admiring the shade of pink that the clouds had adopted in the bellies that evening. It was a beautiful thing to look at. A quaint smile came to make its home on his face. The grin was soft and showed no teeth, as did most of their kind. A long release of air from the man’s lungs brought the rest of his body with it in one relaxing motion. His hand reached into his pocket and drew out a small key chain with only three keys. His fingers deftly rolled the keys about themselves until one was claimed between his middle and index finger, leaving the other two to hang from the ring.

His converse crunched against the sand and fallen maple leaves as his feet carried him to the steps of his porch. That sound was replaced by the echoing of footsteps on wood. Thurstan found himself standing at the door of his home, with the rest of the world at his back. This was peace, in every essence of the word. He felt so at ease that he didn’t particularly know what to do with himself. The tall blonde visored flipped the key around in his hand before pressing it into the lock of his front door. He pulled the key out, and stuffed the ring back into his pocket. As his one hand performed the ritual, his other reached out and twisted the door knob the a light push let the wooden door, centered with a beautiful stain glass window, sway open.

Trace stepped inside, taking in the scene as though this was his first time in a new place. His eyes wandered from the fireplace, to the coffee table before it and then the couch and reclining chair beside that. He absorbed everything he could, the paintings and pictures on the wall, the doorway to the kitchen and even the stairs that led up to the second floor. Nothing had really changed since the last time he was here. Even though he’d hired someone to come check up on the place every week, he was still surprised that the termites hadn’t eaten away at the supports while he was gone. He inhaled deeply and let out another heavy sigh.

“I’m home.”