The thought had been lingering in my mind for days, quietly building momentum. Each morning, I woke up to the same noise, the same crowded streets, the same gray routine. The city, once full of excitement and opportunity, now felt like a cage—its walls made of concrete and its air thick with exhaustion. I needed a break. Not just a change of scenery, but something deeper—a pause, a breath, a place where silence had meaning.
So I sat alone one evening, the soft hum of traffic outside my window, and asked myself, “Where can I go?” Not just anywhere—but away. Away from deadlines and messages. Away from the rhythm of urban life. Somewhere I could hear my own thoughts again.
I didn’t want skyscrapers. I didn’t want neon lights. I wanted trees. I wanted sky. I wanted to wake up to birdsong instead of alarms and walk on grass instead of pavement. Somewhere the world moved slower—perhaps a remote village, a quiet forest, a sleepy hill station where time forgets to rush. It didn’t matter how far. What mattered was how different it felt. A place untouched by noise and busyness. A place that could remind me who I was before the city demanded all of my time and energy.
That’s when I started planning my escape. At the end of the week, I decided to finish work and go to the house of one of my ill-fated aunts near Pursat, far from the city of London. It was a long way from the main city. After a long and mentally draining week, I felt a deep need to escape the constant noise of the city. The office walls seemed to close in tighter with each passing day, and the endless gray of London’s skyline offered no comfort. So, by Friday afternoon, I made up my mind to get away—even if just for a short while.
My destination was Pursat—a quiet, almost forgotten village tucked far away from the city’s cold pulse. It wasn’t easy to reach. The train ride alone was long and slow, crawling through fields and countryside like a reluctant snail. After that, a narrow winding road took me deeper into a landscape where the air grew clearer, and the noise gave way to rustling leaves and distant bird calls.
I was headed to the house of my aunt, a woman whose life had always seemed to bear the weight of sorrow. She had lost much—too much, perhaps—and her small, weathered cottage mirrored that history. Perched on the edge of a forest, her home stood like a silent witness to time, loneliness, and memories too painful to forget. Though distant in both geography and spirit, something about the place called to me. Maybe it was the peace. Maybe it was the desire to reconnect with a piece of family that had quietly drifted away. Or maybe, deep down, I felt that my own tired heart needed the quiet that only a place like Pursat could offer.
