The key they’d given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home.

It had been 45 years since the Turkish had invaded my innocent little village near Famagusta,

where both my family and childhood was stripped away from me.

In all honesty, I thought my stomach would be a lot more tightened than it was, but even passing the once-

familiar mini market, “μίνι μάρκετ”, and the flat where the Drakos’ used to live, I found it difficult to attatch such past experiences to.

The whole area seemed to be attracting crowds of people in, rather than a desperate mob starving to escape.

Everything was painted a suspicious beaming white, as if to purposefully disguise the history that took place in this very street. My home.

I hesitated to push the door open any more; not that I was afraid of the anguishing remembrance,

but because I was fearful of the guilt I would feel from not being able to remember such flashbacks.