Le départ

Sometimes nostalgia for the city smells not of exhaust fumes and asphalt, but of river water, train horns and slightly damp letters that no one writes. Somewhere out there is life, real life, noisy, with laughter in the windows and music from the bars. And here there are fields, open spaces and too much time to think. So I pack my rucksack: a few tunes, my father's jokes, my mother's accent and all the naive courage I have left.

It's time to go, even if it's scary. Because if not now, then when? Let there be uncertainty and mistakes with the French ‘adios’ ahead, but the air there will be new. Home will remain - with the bench in the park, the smell of bread and the ringing of evening bells. And ahead - the road, where you can finally live, not just wait for everything to begin.