‘The hustle and bustle of a city that never sleeps.

The glimmer and glamour of lights always aglow.

Every day the same, every day a change.

What would I do…’

“Music off.” The mag-car’s computer complied as the autopilot maneuvered through the narrow streets. The pedestrians below barely glanced upwards as the car flew by. Its single passenger gazed past her reflection to watch the street signs as she neared her destination.

Clara tucked an errant lock of golden hair behind her ear. She never imagined she would return to her childhood home. It had been years. Too many years. Too many memories. The street names may have stayed the same, but the store faces were all unfamiliar to her.

For a brief moment she would see the coffee shop where they first met, or the jewelers where they picked out their rings. Then reality would lift the veil of memory and reveal a grocers or a boutique trying to hide timeworn scars.

“Why did I come back?” Clara mused aloud, although she already knew the answer. There was no place else she could go. A better question would be, would he still remember her, from their past life together? Would he recognize her in this shell of a woman she had become? It had taken her a long time to heal even this far.

The mag-car slowed as it descended before finally coming to a halt in front of an art gallery. “You have reached your destination on the left,” the computer said in a monotone. At least some things never change. Clara pressed a button on the screen. Once the payment was processed, the door lifted smoothly upwards.

The familiar sounds and smells hit her hard. Clara took a moment to still her trembling hands. She tightly gripped the handle of her bag and stepped onto the sidewalk. The door closed behind her and the car immediately lifted off back into the air.

“There’s no going back now.” She readjusted her grip on the bag and pulled open the door to the gallery. She heard a bell chime somewhere in the back as she entered and a faint, “Be with you in a moment.”

Clara wandered the gallery while she waited. The beautiful works of art soothed her, just as they always had, from the highly detailed landscapes to the bright abstract splashes of color. It felt like home.

A portrait further down the wall drew her eye. It was as tall as she was and no other artworks dared to claim a space on the wall beside it. The painting depicted a young woman laughing as she gazed at the artist, her untamed golden hair caught by the wind. But it was her eyes that mesmerized Clara. It was the sadness in them that had her ghosting her fingers over the the painted face.

“A most beautiful lady is she not?” Clara froze when a man’s voice spoke up behind her. She had not heard anyone approaching. She lowered her hand.

Not facing him she asked, “Who is she?”

“She is the artist’s wife. The love of his life.”

Clara let a small smile reach her lips. “I can tell.” She gripped her bag tighter. “When was this painted? I don’t remember it from my last visit.”

“It is a recent work. The artist saw his wife in a dream and could not rest until he had put it to canvas.” The man paused for a moment. “The artist hoped that the dream was a sign, that he would soon see his wife again.”

Tears flowed freely down Clara’s checks as she turned to face the man beside her. He had tears in his own eyes as well. She dropped her bag as he pulled her close, burying her face in his shoulder.

He held her tightly as they both wept in relief and joy. “Welcome home, Clara.”

He would never let her go again.