Coming home

Sometimes it was the glass of herbal tea on the table. Sometimes a bowl of soup, still kept warm in the rice cooker. Keys on the table. Note on the board. Little things like that.

Today it was the lights. She slipped in at 1 a.m. tonight (the gate didn't shut behind her-- that'll mean her dad's asleep already). Upstairs, though, the bedroom lights were on. She popped her head over next door, mildly surprised at the orange glow.

Her parents have fallen asleep with the lights on. Waiting up for her, perhaps.

Silently she tiptoes across the room and flicks the light switches off, hearing her parents stir briefly as an acknowledgement of her return.

And silence again, awash with serenity for the night. Serenity, and warmth, as always.

Little things like that.

Even as the rest of the home slumbers, she knows that her coming home completes it. The same way it completes her every time.