Several days had passed since I had set foot in the village of Vilona, beginning a new life among its scattered alleys and the "Dew Inn," which had become a temporary shelter for both my body and soul. As time went on, I began to grow accustomed to this place… new faces, the smell of fresh bread every morning, and the sound of the little girl laughing as she ran through the halls. Slowly, the innkeeper ceased to be just a kind woman renting out rooms—she became something akin to a mother, or perhaps a faint shadow of a feeling I had long been missing.
And now, the day I had been waiting for had finally arrived… my day off. I didn't quite know why I'd been counting down to it so eagerly, even though I would spend half of it on the road. Maybe because something within me remained unresolved—a window still open to a short yet pivotal past that shaped who I am today. I wanted to return to the previous village, even if just once, to say goodbye to the place and the people who had walked beside me during my first steps in this new world.
I woke up early—unusual for me—and dressed carefully, as if preparing to visit someone dear, not just heading out for a casual trip. I packed my small bag, although I didn't intend to stay long. On my way out to the lobby, I passed the little girl playing with a worn-out wooden horse. As soon as she saw me, she jumped up and hugged me with her usual spontaneity.
"Will you be back soon?"
She asked with wide eyes .
I smiled bitterly and replied:
"I'll try."
Then I said goodbye to the innkeeper. She didn't say much, but the way she looked at me said more than any words could. I stepped out of the inn with steady footsteps, my heart a blend of nostalgia and hesitation.
The road back to the previous village passed through wide plains and winding dirt paths, lined with pine trees whose leaves danced with every breeze. At first, the weather was pleasant, the sun warm but not harsh—as if nature itself had decided to grant me a peaceful farewell. But as the sun rose higher, fatigue began to set in. Sweat poured from my forehead, and my feet grew heavier than I'd expected, but I didn't stop. I just wanted to reach it… just once, to stand there again.
After two hours of continuous walking, I glimpsed the edges of the old village—the one that had embraced my beginning. It felt like I was approaching an old dream, a reel of memories that would end the moment I crossed its threshold. I paused at the entrance, took a deep breath, gathered my scattered thoughts, then took the first step back into the village.
The feeling was different—a light wave of sorrow washed over me, mixed with a strange calm. Deep down, I knew this might be the last visit, and that these alleys and familiar faces might never cross my path again. Every corner held a memory… the old inn where my humble journey began, the quiet waiter who didn't talk much but always offered a calm smile, and the innkeeper who gave me a roof when I had nowhere to belong.
Even the forest… yes, the forest was the first to welcome me into this world—with its fears, whispers, and cool breezes. That place where I once lay on damp grass under a foreign sky, knowing nothing but still clinging to hope.
Today, I returned to put a period at the end of all that. Not a harsh goodbye, but a quiet farewell—a truce between me and life.
...
I decided my first stop on this long farewell would be the small restaurant that had always been a refuge after a long day's work. It wasn't fancy, just simple enough to feel familiar even if you only visited once. But to me, it held a kind of peace that defied explanation—something you didn't describe, only felt.
I walked slowly toward it, as if trying to steal time before arriving. When I reached its wooden door, I gently pushed it open, and the soft ring of the bell above greeted me like an old friend. There weren't many customers, as usual—and maybe that's why I'd always loved this place.
I moved quietly to the table I always used to sit at—the small corner by the window, where I could see the dirt road and the simple life passing by outside. I sat in silence, watching the light slip through the glass and draw warm lines across the table, as if the sun itself knew I was saying goodbye.
Then, I heard calm footsteps from within. I turned, and there he was… the quiet waiter. He hadn't changed much—still the same gaze, still calm like still water, his voice soft as if he feared waking the silence.
As he approached, he said with a gentle smile:
"I haven't seen you in a while."
I looked at him and smiled in return, a strange warmth filling my chest. I replied softly:
"Me neither."
He didn't say much, just nodded, then asked in that same familiar tone:
"The usual?"
I answered without thinking, as if time had never passed, as if we were still living those same old days:
"Yes, the usual."
He walked away with his steady steps, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I gazed around the place with different eyes, as if seeing it for the first time. Every detail seemed to be bidding me farewell as well —the chipped corner of the wooden table, the slightly cracked glass cup, the spoon that always leaned to the right.
Moments later, he returned with the same dish I always ordered—the one I'd never changed since the first time I came here. He placed it in front of me in silence, nodded, and said:
"I won't forget your face."
Then he vanished from view, just like he always did. He didn't say anything else—he didn't need to. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement between us: a few words were enough.
I looked down at the plate… it was just as I remembered: simple, yet warm-looking—like an invisible hug that calms your heart. I picked up the spoon and began eating slowly, deliberately. I wanted to savor every bite as if it were the first—as if I were storing its taste in my memory forever.
In that moment, I wasn't just a visitor at a restaurant—I was a man saying goodbye to a piece of his life. A piece that may not have been the greatest or the most beautiful, but it was honest, simple, and real enough to leave a mark.