He used to liked traveling.
Each trip used to be an adventure, the process itself was, even as an adult. He was always excited to go and see something new.
Mostly he kept to himself on these trips, traveling alone. Every now and then he’d meet a friend between work engagements, but for the most part it was his little getaway.
He liked people watching in foreign cities. He felt like it was a window into the soul of the city. It’s life blood. By looking at them, at their faces, their eyes, their wrinkles, he’d connect to the world in a way that transcended his everyday existence. He’d absorb their stories, their history. He’d become one with them.
But not this time.
This time he’d take the plane back to his hometown. To his parents house. To the hospital.
The eyes he’d look into wouldn’t be of strangers. And the wrinkles would tell stories he knew very well.