The man sat in silence, one summer afternoon.
Chapter after chapter, his journey appeared in front of him, becoming an spectator of his past.
The past cannot be lived again. Closed. For ever.
But it can be played again, as a game, options open. The ones that he did not followed. The ones that he followed.
But the past is never just history. It cannot be.
No name are going to be mentioned. However, I have noticed that some accounts are no more than vanity windows for people to show how good their homes are. While some of them are quite interesting to see, but my desire to see the people behind them is nil.
And I remembered what I was about to write when my mind went into a blank.
That little girl, in the bus, her soft inquisitive, yet welcoming, voice.
So long ago…