
(Photo prompt: Brenda Cox)
She saw the red bus nearing. Her eyes stung. Must be the jet-lag and little sleep. Home seemed far. Unreal, almost.
Or was this home?
She pressed her bag against the fullness in her chest.
This question was part of what she’d come all this way to explore.
The crush of people carried her onto the vehicle. Up the staircase. To the top.
She leaned into the seat and let the sounds of a language she’d forgotten wash through her. Awakening belonging. Remembering despair.
She’d been four when her adoptive parents came.
One day she belonged here. The next, nowhere.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers










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