Today, I went back to my childhood home.
The house stood just as I had left it, yet entirely different. Time had weathered its bones, chipping away at the paint, dulling the glow of once-familiar corners. But beneath the worn-out facade, I could feel its warmth in my very marrow. The house had held me once, and in some unspoken way, it still did.
I ran my fingers over the headboard of my old bed, tracing the indentations left by restless nights. I had grown up here, my laughter and tears sinking into the walls, becoming part of its foundation. It felt strange, almost invasive, to wonder if it had since embraced new souls, if new dreams now drifted beneath its roof. Did the walls still hum lullabies to wandering minds? Did they still remember the weight of my childhood?
Stepping through the hallways was like moving through a dream. Each creaking floorboard, each patch of faded wallpaper, whispered memories back to me. They spoke of a time when peace had a simple form—your arms, your smile, your touch. The mornings were softer then, filled with the gentle press of your hands as you combed my hair, buttoned my uniform, tied my shoes. You were my first warmth, my first home.
I remember the way the crook of your neck felt molded for me, as if the universe had carved a space just for my small head to rest. Your heartbeat was a melody I could recognize even in my sleep. It was my first song, the rhythm that rocked me into slumber, steady and unbroken.
Back then, the world was a much smaller place. It was contained within the walls of this home, shaped by bedtime stories and the glow of a nightlight. Monsters were chased away with a kiss on the forehead, and fears dissolved in the safety of your embrace. The night was never too dark because love was always there—whispered between the sheets, woven into the hush of lullabies.
But time is a cruel, relentless tide, washing away the softness of childhood.
Now, love is something different—quieter, more fragile. It lingers in messages left unsent, in silent sighs exchanged over the phone. It no longer arrives in the form of bedtime tales but in the pauses of a fading conversation, in the longing hidden between words. The lullabies are gone, and in their place remains only the echo of a voice I strain to remember.
Sleep does not come as easily as it once did. The dreams are different now—less kind, more restless. They are not stories spun from magic and light but from memories that refuse to stay buried. The weight of the world presses heavier, and peace is no longer a given; it is something I must chase, a distant star just beyond reach.
Standing in my childhood room, I found myself wondering—how does one carry the past into the present without unraveling? How do you weave the fabric of old love into a new life without losing its warmth? Perhaps we never truly say goodbye to who we were. Perhaps we merely learn to wear the past differently, carrying it in quiet ways, in hidden corners of our hearts.
So, for one last time, I let myself be the child who once found solace here. I curled up in the wrinkle of time, wrapped in the familiar embrace of yesterday. And as I let my eyes close, I heard it—the ghost of an old lullaby, the fading hum of a love that had never truly left.
And for just a moment, sleep came easy once more.