Unlike his father, Ellis did not cry. He could not cry which greatly distressed him.

‘For who would not weep at such a warm welcome from someone they loved and who loved them?’

But his father did not notice and if he did, he did not care. He was only glad to see his son.

“You have grown taller.”

“And you shorter.”

“You haven’t changed at all. Come, come, let us go in. There’s stew. With carrots. Is that alright?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Now, my boy, you must tell me about all that’s happened to you.”

“I will.”

He didn’t.

Not through any fault of his own. The house was not far from the gates and even when he shortened his strides to prolong the walk, he was unable to tell his father everything that he had done. And when they entered the house, Ellis’ focus had drifted from his doings to the nostalgia that welcomed him.

At once, his surroundings filled him with a sense of familiarity. The furnishings remained unchanged as did the lavender that lingered in the air. This was home. He recognized it. He remembered it. But he felt distant from it.

His father, noticing his son’s mind was elsewhere, quickly fetched a bowl of stew before ushering Ellis upstairs to his old room, which was also unchanged and, to Ellis’ surprise, quite clean.

“You must be tired from your travels,” his father said, handing the stew to Ellis. “Eat and rest. We will talk come the morning.”

Ellis thanked his father. The bowl warmed his cold hands and its aroma made him salivate. “It smells good.”

His father smiled at him and Ellis managed to smile back.