His father’s stew was as delicious as he had remembered it to be. He had seen his father make it and had helped to make it many times before. He made it himself in his time alone, but his never did taste the same.

As delicious as it was, Ellis feared upsetting his stomach any further. He took only a few spoonfuls of carrots and potatoes and a few sips of the broth that was rich in flavour and set the bowl on the table near his bed.

His bed.

His room.

His house.

It was almost too much to take in.

He was then reminded of what his father said:

‘You haven’t changed at all.’

But that wasn’t true. He had changed. Because if he was the same, why did he feel like a stranger in his old room among his old belongings? The fact that he thought of it as his old room and his old things made it quite clear to him that he was new and different from who he once was.

Though he knew he had changed, he did not know what had changed about him.

Ellis looked round the room and saw that everything was still in its place as when he had left. His paintings still hung on the walls. The curtains still covered half the windows, just as he had liked. And to his delight, the plant he kept by the windowsill was still alive. He had planted the seed not long before he left, and last he saw, it had only begun to sprout. Now it had a long stem with small leaves, and a lovely pale blue flower whose petals were lined a deeper blue and whose centre shone like gold. It was truly a sight to behold, especially beneath the moonlight, and he noted it was quite fragrant, too.

Ellis looked at the flower which seemed to look back at him.

‘If flowers could think,’ he thought, ‘I wonder if it knows how much it has changed.’