As I write from New York, where other windows across from mine are illuminated for the night to come, its quiet except from the other rooms across the hallway of our shared flat. The beating of identical keys and rhythms, as a finely tuned orchestra, gives company. I stand up to make some coffee and hear all the other typing stopping at the same time. I cross my room and open the hallway that opens to an also empty living room, where the cat lying in the couch awaits me to feed her while I set up the kettle for the water. I turn on the few lights before I go back to my room, checking first through the library to see who has taken what, passing over the Portuguese and Swedish books, jumping through the Spanish and the Chinese. I then walk back my steps and hear that no one yet has started to write again. I put my head to someone’s else door and listen what they are doing. In one I hear the sound of waves, in the other I hear praying and in the third the sound of a multitude. However, the are many rooms and I don’t have time to listen to all. There is just a couple which I really like to visit from time to time. The one two doors to the left and the other three to the right. In the first, when I open, the sand from the room gets into the hallway and the smell of salt stings the face. In front there is only the sea and a man sitting against a tree looking at something in the beach while he has his notepad open over his legs. He is smiling. When I close, pushing the sand back, I go to the other room. When I open, I see a packed room with K-pop bursting in the back while teenagers laugh and plan their night drinking Soju. At the back, looking through the window, a woman with a computer takes a pause from writing. I close the door again, leave the noise locked out and return to my room. There I sit down, think of them and begin to write again. In the background, the orchestra has also again begun to play.
Yes, and where do you want go, little boy? I tried to keep the conversation running. Any sound was preferable that the silence in the middle of the woods of two unknown standing.
Home. He said, while grabbing my hand and taking me through the dark and the woods deeper into the forest, the opposite from where I was coming from. I wanted to leave him there, but at the same time I couldn’t forgive myself for letting anyone lost in the wood. The problem was the one that was guiding, the boy, was in reality the one that supposed to be lost. It took me a while to process the contradiction, detain more in his precedence and his ethereal voice than anything else.
However, we finally reached a clearing. Copper lights could be seen through the opening of the trees. We finally arrived to a house, a brick house similar to the ones that my grandparents use to have in Upstate New York, surrounded by the occasional sound of passing by car. The boy then took me walking until we were face to face to the other, but neither of us knocked. Instead, he decided to take me besides the window. On the other side, as if it was a mirror, I could see myself with my grandparents and my parents and my wife and my son.