Home. She was home.
The 15 years of her absence had changed the weary streets. Where once this time of morning would bring a bustling crowd of women and children rushing to the textile factory, the downsizing of the factory because of new, quieter machinery left the streets more serene. Now, the sleepy shops began to open bleary eyes to the refreshment of morning. Paint had peeled, shingles had fallen, bricks had chipped, signs had faded, poles had rusted, weeds had grown.
Time had continued. Sednai had aged. Here she felt the strangely familiar feeling that comes with physical growth- the feeling of a world shrunken out of remembered proportions. She marveled at the lamp poles whose bulbs, once heavenly, were now newly accessible by her hand; at the bricks of the road that, although once comparable to the size of her foot, now quivered in fear at the descent of her long feet; at the streets, once rivers impassable less a strong swimmer, that now were crossed within a few strides. Yet, the soft smell of city dust, dried sweat, and carts selling pastries was the same, the dampened, desaturated color of the bricks, doorknobs, and lamp posts was the same, and the sign above the only shop that mattered to her in this moment was the same.
She couldn’t read it, of course. She recognized the sign’s coloring, however, and the shape and type of the letters proudly printed across it. She knew what they said, too- Belle’s Brilliance. Her excuse for coming here weighed heavily in her heart and bag. She had broken a childhood promise and gift.
She had broken the music box. It hadn’t been intentional or her fault, for that matter- but Teuila, her galdor master, was a curious one and a clumsy one. A simple knock of the elbow had left the box on the ground, and Sednai had nervously cradled it to find the pane of glass webbed with white cracks as a loose gear rattled its way throughout the interior of the box. She had promised to keep it in good condition, but now it lay bandaged in fabric and asleep in a wooden cell in the bottom of the satchel at her back.
Now she stood before the shop, clad in a modest, simple dress whose crooked hem kissed the top of her boots. Inside the building was an old friend to whom many a promise was made, but perhaps not kept. She had not stayed in Vienda, had not written letters, had not remained his friend. She had simply left, and she could not forget it. She stepped up to the door, placing a palm on the smooth knob of the door. She hesitated, but remembered, remembered the happiness at which Boston had met her, remembered the authenticity of which he had spoke to her, and her fears drifted away in what she hoped wasn’t false comfort. She pushed open the door and stepped cautiously into the shop, hoping that Boston would want to see her.