It returned, timidly, just a pale warmth lightly painting a corner of the room yellow.

It’s March, the month of Spring’s birth and my Father’s. In the new house, but not the one I still dream of.

In this one, he will enter through the open windows and stroll calmly through each room and each hall, from early morning until late afternoon. He will inhabit the space in my absence, his warm presence will welcome me upon my return home.

At night, his warmth will give way to the fire burning in the fireplace, banishing loneliness. His light will give way to that of the full moon, peeking through the skylight, watching attentively.

The house will open and close in just the right measure of his maternal embrace, comforting me until the sun returns. And the desire to go out and lose myself again in the city.