Homecoming

by Kate Morton

It was her favorite thing to do, to walk and to look, to pinch herself in wonder at being here, in this place of cobblestones, pint glasses, and mews houses, of poets and painters and playwrights, of the great skulking, ageless River Thames.

Home, she’d realized, wasn’t a place or a time or a person, though it could be any and all of those things: home was a feeling, a sense of being complete. The opposite of “home” wasn’t “away,” it was “lonely.”