CHAPTER TWO
I remember the first time I saw a city. Not the big ones, the ones with the steel and glass reaching up like they were trying to grab the sky. No, I’m talking about a town. The kind where everybody knows your name, even if they don’t know anything about you.
I was young, restless, and full of something I didn’t have a name for yet—maybe hope, maybe stupidity. Could’ve been both. I packed my bags, left the farm where I grew up, and hitchhiked to the nearest place that felt like it was somewhere. Not that I had any idea what I was doing there, but I figured it was time to try something new.
People don’t tell you about the loneliness that comes with a crowd. In the city, there’s always noise. Always. But it’s the kind of noise that drowns you out. Like trying to yell in the middle of a marching band. I spent my first few weeks there in a small flat above a bakery. The smell of fresh bread was comforting, for about five minutes. After that, it just made me hungry. And lonely.
I didn’t last long. Not in the city, anyway. After a few months, I found myself hitchhiking back, bags heavier than they’d ever been, with more regrets than when I left. I’ve never been good at making decisions. At least out here, in the quiet, I don’t need to make many. The dog’s got a simpler life than I do.
He rolls over in his sleep, and his tail hits the side of the wooden floor with a soft thud. I chuckle. The dog’s good for that—making me laugh when I didn’t know I needed to. His name’s not really Maybe anymore, though. I dropped that after the first year. Decided he earned a real name, even if I was still figuring out if I’d stay. So, he’s “Dog.” Simple, no fuss.
I didn’t mean to end up back here. Didn’t mean to end up anywhere. You think you’re running from something, but you’re never really running toward anything. Maybe that’s the trick. I’ve learned to stop searching for answers. You just end up with more questions.
The fire crackles, sending little sparks up the chimney. It’s almost too cold outside, but inside it’s just right—warm enough to make you forget what it feels like to be out there in the dark, where the only sound is the wind fighting with the trees.
Some nights, it feels like the world forgot me. That’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s one of the most peaceful feelings I’ve ever had. People get too hung up on being remembered. The ones that remember you—well, they often don’t mean as much as the ones who don’t. Time’s a funny thing like that. People fade away, places get forgotten, and before you know it, all you have is the fire in front of you, the dog at your feet, and your own thoughts echoing back at you.
I try not to dwell too long on the past. I’ve got a few good memories, a few bad ones, and a whole lot of nothing in between. But the important ones stick around, like the smell of the woods after a rain or the way the sun feels on your skin when you’ve been too long inside.
And then there are the regrets. The ones you can’t shake. The ones you don’t talk about because you know there’s nothing anyone can say to fix them. I try not to think about them, but they creep up sometimes. Usually, it’s when I’m walking in the woods, listening to the wind rustle the leaves, and all of a sudden, I’m back there—back in the past, reliving mistakes, over and over, like a bad record.
But then Dog looks up at me, those eyes full of something simple and pure, and I remember that none of it matters right now. The past is the past, and I’m not that person anymore. Not in the way I used to be. I think we’re all capable of creating who we become, maybe it’s too much work for most people or maybe they don’t notice it at all. When I get like this it’s best to put the pen down and try to be less philosophical.
I think it's interesting 