ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs

LOST

There was never a need to be found.

Never the need to search, to lose—to find—for all she needed was right here. Right here. . . It was in the crevices of the foliage that overturned like water from a glass across the exterior of this little cottage. It was in the handmade threads that comprised the attire she wore day by day and time and time again, until the fibers became undone and the buttons missing, which beckoned an operation of mending. It was in the underbrush of the woodlands situated just above and down in the valley where the meadows hold an array of floral akin to an artist's filled palette. It was in the condensation that would rise from a chipped teacup while the warm liquid brimmed into the saucer underneath. It was in the rays of light that kissed her face and the winds that played with her and the rain that fell into her orbit. It was in the way her mother tenderly furnished the quilts with patchwork of bygone remembrances, now forever preserved in the present for the future. It was in the way her father poured his heart out as he strung words across pages with meanings in the spaces separating the lines from one another. It was in the arms of her parents that embraced her ever so unconditionally; her family. . . It was right here. Right here in between the places she called home.

        Called home until she could no longer. Until she had to utter her goodbyes with water raining from her eyes to all that she has ever known. To the here in between the places she called home. Yet, a smile was still etched upon her face. With monochromatic boxes and baggage and boarding, the train took her away from these noble highlands. The outline of the mountains and its crown now, nothing more than a dream. A distant star that, like all stars, was out there somewhere taking up space among the endless expanse of the sky. In a sense, the Crown Tundra was like that; home was like that. Her next home was a fleeting one. It was filled with entrances that duplicated one another across the walls of empty corridors. Each door, although a carbon copy reads a distinct string of variables. For each door was a key of its own. No matter whether the bell tolled twelve during the day or twelve at night, throngs of individuals came to and fro, each visiting but never staying. Of course, it didn't matter; that was the purpose of these rooms anyways. After all, why would anyone want to stay concealed within four walled rooms when a sprawling metropolis is what awaits just across the boulevard and around a corner? Why would anyone stay inside when they're in Wyndon?

        Situated just across the boulevard and around a corner was a hospital. Through nearly every transparent window that lined the exterior of its facade was a view of the sprawling metropolis; was a view of Wyndon. And concealed within a four walled room was her father. No matter whether the bell tolled twelve during the day or twelve at night—no matter whether the sky cried or hailed or shined or cleared—they always visited but could never stay. Hand in hand, she walked with her mother through those transparent doors and down corridors filled with entrances that duplicated one another. And of course, each door, although a carbon copy read a distinct string of variables. Perhaps, for each door was a key of its own. Every time she peered in, it was a nostalgic sight. Her father's back turned toward the entryway as he stared out onto the streets of Wyndon. His figure tucked orderly underneath too white sheets as wires protrude from his skin link to the monitor just beside him. Its display showcased his ever changing vitals for each passing second. Then all at once, he would turn to face her. Etched onto his countenance was that ever smile of glee as his eyes became transparent with affection. With outstretched arms, she came running into him. Her tiny hands lovingly grasped at his shirt as the strands of their pink colored locks synthesized together as they laid the temples of their cheeks against one another. And of course, each time there was a smile etched upon her face.

— — — — —

Wyndon was a fleeting home. For not even a year later the train took her away again. The lights of the Wyndon skyline glittered but not like gold. Not like the noble highlands with the mountains and its crown. It was nothing like a dream; a distant star that, like all stars, was out there taking up space among the endless expanse of the sky. It was not like the Crown Tundra, but maybe it could have been. Maybe it could have been right here in between the places she called home. . . The next home was a permanent one. A "forever home," her parents dubbed. She liked it here. Liked how the crevices of the foliage overturned like water from a glass across the exterior of this house. Liked the misty air of the woodlands just beyond that worn wooden gate. Liked the open fields with its array of vegetation akin to an artist's filled palette. Liked the new friend she made with the golden eyes and kind disposition. Liked the way the sun kissed her face and the winds that played with her and the rain that fell into her orbit. Liked how happy her parents were. She liked this little farming town; she liked Postwick.