After finishing my meal, I took one final look at the restaurant—and at the waiter who was no longer just a stranger, but a familiar face in this world.
I greeted him with a sincere smile.
He returned the gesture with a warm nod, as if he somehow knew, deep down, that I wouldn't be coming back.
I left the restaurant with slow steps, my stomach full... and something much heavier in my heart.
My next destination was clear.
The forest.
The first place that embraced me when I was a complete stranger to this world… alone, with nothing but ten dollars, a phone, and a pen.
I walked toward it as if I were walking into the arms of an old mother.
And when I arrived, I found the exact same spot.
Nothing had changed. The trees still leaned slightly, whispering old secrets, their leaves dancing with the wind just like before, and the distant sound of the river flowed with the same rhythm I'd heard on my first night here.
Everything felt frozen in time... or as if it had been waiting for me—to say a final goodbye.
I sat on the ground, damp with the dew of memories, and let my gaze wander through the trees...
Here, I slept hungry.
Here, I dreamed of my family.
Here, I wished this life was just a nightmare.
But I survived. I changed.
And this very spot witnessed it all.
I let out a long sigh—as if it carried months of exhaustion, fear, and attachment—then stood up, cast one last look at the place, and whispered:
"Thank you... for being the beginning."
Now came the harder farewell...
The Grain Inn.
That humble wooden house that carried the scent of soup and a warmth I hadn't found anywhere else.
Its owner was more than just a woman who ran an inn. She was a grandmother. A refuge. She was Luna.
Grandma Luna.
I walked toward it slowly. Each step was heavy with nostalgia.
And when I stood in front of the door, a sudden hesitation gripped me.
Should I knock? Or just leave quietly?
But my heart wouldn't let me go without saying goodbye.
I knocked three soft knocks.
Just seconds later, the door opened.
There she was… exactly as I'd left her.
The same wrinkles, the same warm voice, and that smile—like a winter sun—still lived on her face.
"Oh, my dear!"
She said, opening her arms and hugging me.
I couldn't help myself. I bowed slightly out of respect and gratitude, then entered the inn in silence.
"Come, sit. I made that soup you love."
Her voice was a mix of joy and sadness—as if she knew.
No… she did know. Without a doubt.
I sat at the wooden table I had sat at dozens of times before.
I began to eat, and the taste… was exactly the same.
Simple, but warm.
Each spoonful told a story, and every sprinkle of salt felt like a tale.
But my heart was heavy.
I couldn't smile like I used to.
The end was near, and departure had become inevitable.
Grandma Luna looked at me calmly and said:
"Not every moment has to be sad. Sometimes, we just need to enjoy it as it is.
We meet, we part, and then... we meet again.
We'll see each other… someday."
I smiled—eyes wet with tears.
I knew she understood everything.
Maybe she had sensed it even before I arrived.
When I finished my meal, I stood up, walked over to her, and pulled out five dollars from my pocket, placing it gently on the table.
"This is for the night, just like I promised."
But she shook her head gently, smiling with the kind of wisdom only time gives.
"Since it's your last day… there's no need to pay."
Something crumbled inside me.
Maybe the last wall I'd built to keep myself from breaking.
I smiled through the pain and said in a soft voice:
"Goodbye… Grandma Luna."
She replied with a tender voice:
"Goodbye, my dear. Be well… wherever you go."
…
After I said farewell to Grandma Luna and walked out of the Grain Inn—which had never been just a place to sleep, but a tiny homeland when I had none—I felt that the day wasn't quite over yet.
I stood in front of the door for a moment, looking at the sky. The sun had begun its descent, and the breeze whispered that the day was nearing its end… just like me.
I thought to myself:
"Since this is my last day here… why not gift it to myself?
Why not walk around a little, let my feet wander one last time through the streets where my story began?
And maybe... buy a small something to take with me, to remember all of this."
And so, I began walking.
I passed through the old market, with the voices of vendors, the laughter of children, and the mixed scents of fresh bread and spices.
The buildings stood just as they were—faded in color, small shops simply decorated—yet everything felt strangely alive... as if the village itself was trying to give me the warmest farewell.
I walked through narrow alleys barely wide enough for two people to pass.
I touched the walls with my fingers, as if I were saying goodbye to a memory.
I passed restaurants I never entered, wooden benches I had sat on countless times.
Even the tiny trees planted at the roadside… they seemed familiar, as if they had been watching me all this time.
Then I remembered a store I'd visited before.
The clothing shop...
The Thrift Store.
I smiled unconsciously as the memory of my funny conversation with the owner came back.
I decided that my souvenir would be from there.
Maybe from the same shelf I'd stood in front of the first time.
I reached the store's door.
It was exactly as I remembered—an old wooden door, glass paneled with a few scratches—but inside, it was lit with a special kind of warmth.
I pushed the door lightly.
It creaked open with its usual click.
I stepped in.
The shop owner stood at his usual spot behind the counter.
He looked up at me and smiled… as if he remembered.
I didn't say anything.
Just greeted him quietly and started browsing through the clothes.
This time, I wasn't looking for the cheapest, or the most practical.
I was looking for something that felt right.
I moved between shirts and trousers, looked at colors, felt fabrics…
Until my eyes landed on something.
Something that made me stop.
A gray jacket.
Hanging in a quiet corner.
Its hood was wide, draping down the back.
Its design simple—but with a comforting elegance.
I don't know why…
But it captivated me.
I approached it and touched it.
It was soft, warm to the touch—
As if it had been made just for me.
I knew.
This would be my keepsake.
I held it in my hands and walked to the shop owner.
"I want this jacket.
How much is it?"
I asked in a voice filled with resolve… and a touch of nostalgia.
He looked at it, then at me, and said in his usual calm tone, a small smile on his face:
"Fifteen dollars."
I pulled out the money without hesitation, paid the amount, and he placed it in a simple brown bag, handing it to me with no need for many words.
"Thank you…"
I said, holding the bag tightly—
As if it carried more than just a jacket.
I stepped out of the store, stood for a moment at the door, and looked at the street…
At the life that kept moving forward.
There was something in my heart that felt like sadness—
And something else that felt like gratitude.
Yes, this may truly be the last time I see this village.
But it won't be the last time I remember it.