And Every Morning The Way Home Gets Longer And Longer Mga Nobela at Kwento

I watch Kaelara grow smaller against the horizon. Home is no longer a place. It is my brothers beside me And the woman we choose, every single day. -The End

On the way home I keep thinking about Black, questioning every word of her. Passing in the first place because today I have again left late, I have again been late to the bus that combines with the metro that I must take every day to go and return from my work (when it is not in my boss's car) which, between one thing and the other, has delayed me for more than an hour and a half on my return home. One more time. Hour and a half that does not recognize it in the extra payment but in the name of Vittorino that I wear. Luckily mom will be asleep by the time I get home.

There was no time for explanations—not when Alora’s deadline loomed over me like a guillotine. The journey from the estate gates to the mansion was another grueling endeavor. The driveway stretched out before me, a seemingly endless expanse of manicured lawns and towering oaks. I broke into a sprint, my breath coming in sharp gasps, my chest tightening with each stride. Sweat trickled down my temples, matting my hair to my forehead. By the time I reached the mansion’s grand double doors, I was gasping for air. I paused, bending over, hands on my knees, my chest rising and falling as I struggled to catch my breath. The morning sun beat down mercilessly, and I felt the weight of every second t

’ It didn’t do much to ease the knot of tension in my chest. We drove on in silence after that, the scenery outside the window shifting slowly. The farther we went, the more everything began to change. After what felt like hours, the roads grew smoother, the trees taller, and the buildings grander. By the time we turned onto the long, winding driveway leading up to their home, my heart was racing. The sun was setting, casting everything in a golden glow. It reflected off the massive building ahead, its massive walls gleaming like gold encased in glass.

The road felt endless. Dust lifted in waves behind us, the truck’s engine groaning as if it shared our exhaustion. We’d been driving for nearly ten hours, following coordinates that didn’t exist on any map. The world around us looked hollow — the husk of something that once believed it was alive.

Élianor The following days are long, very long, interminable, every minute seems to last an hour, every hour seems to last a day, every day seems to last an eternity, and the tension is there, present, heavy, oppressive, like a black cloud hovering over the house, threatening to burst at any moment, reminding us that the danger is there, outside, somewhere, waiting, watching, preparing, ready to strike, when we least expect it, when we let our guard down, when we think everything is fine, that everything is over, that everything is saved, that everything is won.

My legs felt thick, like they belonged to someone else. I walked to my car instead. The path felt long, as if the night had stretched itself between me and the safety of that vehicle. My boots crushed gravel almonds underfoot; each crunch sounded disproportionately loud. My breath came shallow, the cold air more effective than any thought for clearing the burn at my cheek.

We came home on a Sunday. The drive from Zara's territory took four hours and I spent most of it looking out the window at the landscape changing as we went north. The open eastern sky giving way to the familiar density of the forest roads. The sky narrowing. The trees pressing in. Home coming through the trees at dusk. The gates. The packhouse warm and lit. Sola in the doorway. Some things did not change and I was glad of it. The Monday morning was ordinary.

“Home?” I repeated in question. Home. I lived from one orphanage to another. I didn’t really have a permanent place to stay. I was alone but wasn’t lonely. I didn’t have a shelter of my own but I was home. For eighteen years, wherever I went, I was home. At first, I find it weird being comfortable with a new place at an instant, feeling home, but now I know why. It was because home was following me. Home doesn’t refer to a thing with doors and windows. Home is a person or even a ghost. Sadness slowly crept in my system. I just lost that home. Recently, I discovered that I got myself another home, Grip, but I lost them both right after another.

Noah's P.O.V The long drive from campus to my home felt like a slow trek to my own execution. By the time I pulled up to the front of my family’s mansion, the same looming, white-stoned fortress I'd grown up in, it had gotten even darker. My tires crunched over the long winding driveway which was filled with floodlights along the stone paths down which cut through the Late night November darkness.