In the fall of 2020, I tried (very feebly) to redecorate a portion of my childhood room. After graduating college, with the funds and motivations to fuel the project, I enlisted the help of an experienced friend to begin work on a custom workspace—a new computer and accessories to match . Watching the pieces I had thoughtfully curated coming together into a cohesive whole--its own form of art and sculpture. The computer eventually found its place on top of an aged writing desk in my room, leaving just enough space for me to work. 

It was within these past few months, shuffling back and forth between my too-small-desk where my new computer sat, nestled in an inner wall of my childhood bedroom, that I began to reflect the state of the small house I lived within, where my adult self shared these mementos with memories of the past. My childhood bedroom is dark and cool, as it has been within my memory, and when the sun fades away, the only sources of light can be found from the warmth of my ancient desk-lamp casting shadows on the walls, or most recently, the steady neon pulse of the PC’s power lights. Home (for me) is in itself an evanescent concept--sometimes it is the room transforming at a certain time of day, capturing light in remnants of orange and gold. Or it is imposing, such as when I looked on as the mementos of my last Home--the one I had left after several years for college—disappeared into the depths of this house, locked away until the day I leave again. It’s almost like saying that time had disappeared, that what I had gained only fades back into what once was. Return to what you were before. 

And yet, I don’t think this is what necessarily happened, as I tried to work around the confines of this space, shuffling memories with the talismans of my real life. There are still moments in this house that make the room feel as dark and small, as though I am a child again invited across the threshold. Even so, I’ve returned to this space as an adult, bringing along the fruits I acquired in that too-short time in the world, and I can see I have returned different. I speak into the walls of the house, letting it take those memories, until they are not gone, but one--they have merged with this Home. And I sit back, listening to the hum of my computer as I trace digital lines, click away at works not yet said, and listen for the low drone of the nearby freeway that has yet to fall silent  It is something profound to grow within a single space called Home, and it is equally as profound to make one of your own, and to understand how you and it have changed—an exchange of metamorphosis.

When he finally opened his eyes, he knew time had passed. No longer was Quincy on hard cool earth, but he was lying in a warm cloud. No, spoke a voice inside his head. A nice warm bed. A thick blanket covered him, and pillows propped his head. The scent of cooked meat wafted through the air.

It was a while before he could make sense of his surroundings. As he focused instead around the walls of the room instead, he shivered despite the warm blankets and sheets.

“Oh good, you’re finally awake,” spoke someone from behind, and a woman walked into the room. Her voice was the same as the one Quincy heard when he was rescued.

She was a slight woman, with soft brown hair, and a small smile that gave her a kind look. In her hands was a dish she was cleaning with a small rag. Quincy noted how she beamed warmly at him, and he spoke aloud the thing he’d been wondering.

“Where am I?” he croaked.

“Nowhere, really,” the woman said apologetically. “Just south of the city, to be honest. But it’s just this humble abode around here.”

Quincy glanced again around the room. Small ornaments, old and new alike, adorned the walls and cabinets.

“You gave us a scare!” the woman interjected. “Dario happened to be gathering water for our flowerbeds, when he saw you in the river. Only this time, we were prepared, so he grabbed a rope we had tied nearby and went out to get you. We saw you floundering out there, so he knew you were alive.

“It’s okay though, you should be fine; we got you in here, and you’ve been out for a while, but you should really get something hot inside you, because that river’s cold as Hades itself. I have some stew on the stove, so I’ll get you a nice bowl as soon as I can.”

Quincy blinked. “Thank you,” he murmured. His senses were returning, and he quietly mused on the circumstances of his near-death experience. Another pang of grief made his throat and chest ache near as much as the river had. Bracing himself, he turned back to the woman.

“I’m sorry, I did not ask your name. What is it?”

The woman smiled. “I’m Marie. My husband’s Dario, as you know now. We farm crops for the city, and I even have a little flower business on the side. I deliver to the local florists. It’s not much, but we get the job done. It’s mostly grain and things, and the other niceties are a little more expensive, like potatoes and corn, but we know a lot of people up in the city and we can usually get them with their help.”

A clock rang somewhere in the other room.

“Oh!” Marie looked surprised. “Sorry, I don’t want to talk you to death. Wait here.” She hurried out of the room; shouting over her shoulder as she went, “Don’t want the stew to burn!”

Quincy lay back on the pillows, feeling weak. She was a regular commuter to the city…surely she and her husband knew about the mysterious criminal that captivated the place? And here they had taken into their home a stranger, knowing neither his name nor his business.

When he opened his eyes, he was startled to see the room in darkness; he must have dozed off once more. He stared up at the ceiling, watching deep shadows dance against the flickering light of the dying candle, remembering the same kind of light in the basement of his old home. He shut his eyes tight.

“Mister?” The door opened once more, and Marie looked into the room. “Sorry to disturb you, but the stew’s been done, and you really need to eat. You look the worse for wear, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“It’s fine,” said Quincy, half-amused. “May I join you at the table, if I haven’t missed supper? I prefer to sit and eat.”

“Are you sure? You need bed-rest,” Marie looked concerned.

“I’m sure. I would be happy to sup with the people who saved my life.” Quincy inwardly winced at how unconvincingly toneless his words were; yet Marie seemed not to notice. Still looking a little hesitant, she waited until Quincy had managed to stand up. Despite his weakness, he tottered after her into a tiny kitchen, where a table was laid to one side. A delicious smell wafted from a huge iron pot.

As Quincy sat, Marie ladled some stew into a bowl; it was thick with broth and potatoes. Tiny vegetables and delicate slices of meat swam in the gravy. As Quincy made to take the first spoonful, the door opened and Dario stomped into the room. He was a tall man, with rough skin and graying thin hair. As he entered, his face seemed set in a sort of unfriendly scowl.

“Eh?” Dario put his hat on the countertop. “He’s awake?”

“Yes,” Marie was looking down as she ladled more stew, mixing it. “He wanted to eat in here.”

“I hope it’s no bother,” Quincy added, making to stand up, despite his protesting body. Dario eyed him.

“Sit down,” he grunted, before plopping down in a seat opposite him. As Marie handed him a bowl, he grasped her hand and held it to his lips briefly, murmuring a greeting. Marie gave another small smile, before leaving the room.

Quincy realized he was staring, and quickly looked back towards his stew. He heard Dario mutter something else, and realized he was saying grace. Flustered, Quincy made to do the same, realizing how long it had been since he had a real meal like this. The room was quiet as the men then made to sup. It was a delicious stew, filled with the riches of meats and spices, and Quincy savored every warm mouthful.

“So,” Dario spoke after a while, setting down his spoon. “Well you know who we are, and now I’m meaning to ask the same. Who are you?”

Quincy thought, wondering how to tackle the question. “A lone man,” he answered. “My name is Quincy Moreau. I study,” he hesitated for fraction of a second “plants,” he lied.

“I see.” Dario wiped his mouth with a fraying handkerchief. “A scientist fellow.”

“Not a scientist, really,” Quincy backpedaled quickly. “It’s a, uh, hobby of mine.”

Dario said nothing. He ate another spoonful of stew, chewing slowly. “And were you studying…river plants, when you almost drowned?” he asked.

Quincy had a vague idea he was only humoring him.

“No, actually,” he admitted. “I was looking for…someone. I thought they were hiding near the river, and I lost my nerve. I-I fell in. The river was much more dangerous than I thought.”

“Too right,” Dario agreed. Marie walked back into the room, carrying a spare seat, which she propped beside the table.