Welcome
My aunt welcomed me with a warmth that softened the tired corners of my heart. Her smile was like a bird—light, free, and full of quiet joy.
As I stepped out of the old, creaking car and onto the gravel path that led to her cottage, she was already at the door, her apron dusted with flour and her eyes gleaming with recognition. Despite the years that had passed since I last visited, her embrace felt timeless. There was something about her presence that made the weight I carried seem lighter, almost forgotten. Her smile was delicate and sincere, fluttering across her face like a bird taking flight at dawn. It wasn’t grand or theatrical—it was gentle, effortless, like the sun slowly peeking through morning mist. I felt a comfort I hadn’t known I’d needed. In that moment, her face, lined with quiet years and wisdom, was more welcoming than any place I’d been in the city.
The air around her smelled of baked bread and lavender. “You’ve grown,” she said with a laugh, her voice like a song I hadn’t heard in a long time. She led me inside, one hand on my shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, I felt at peace—safe, even. The house hadn’t changed much. Wooden furniture, old curtains, and shelves lined with books and family photographs gave it a soul. But it was my aunt—her spirit, her kindness, her gentle laughter—that made the house a home.
Life in my aunt’s countryside home unfolded like a slow, beautiful song—unhurried, gentle, and filled with moments that asked for nothing in return. The days had no alarms to wake me, no schedules to follow, and no urgent messages blinking on a screen. Time, here, didn’t tick. It breathed.
Each morning, I woke to the soft glow of sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, the sound of birds chirping just outside the window, and the distant rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. There was no rush to get out of bed, no pressure to be anywhere or do anything. I simply rose when I felt like it, my body finally in tune with the natural rhythm of the day. There was joy in the smallest of things: sipping tea on the porch with my aunt as we watched the world stretch into the morning, helping her gather herbs from the garden, or taking long, aimless walks along narrow paths that led into golden fields. We cooked together, laughed over stories from the past, and sometimes sat in companionable silence, letting the peace fill the spaces between words. Here, happiness wasn’t loud or grand. It was quiet, steady, and sincere. No deadlines. No traffic. No stress clawing at my shoulders. Just the freedom to be—to feel, to rest, to remember what it means to be alive without constantly being busy.
It felt like I had stepped out of the world and into a place where life made sense again.
