An old clock chimed every hour, and the thought that I was going to leave to another country did not give me peace.
Like any other person, I was going to make my way through life away from what was holding me back, away from my tired hometown. I had packed my bags the day before and was now waiting for the bus in the same place where I had first left for school and the day I met Dina. She was going to be my classmate, steal my cookies from my backpack, splash me with ink, and make my life bitter.
A few years later, when my mom walked into my room and told me we were moving, I stopped saying hello to Dina. I’d cross to the opposite sidewalk when I saw her.
Now I was looking at the Norocea’s garden from the bus stop and didn’t know what to do. I was supposed to meet my family that was waiting for me at the station. I could see the bus approaching. Then, I ran into the yard and climbed the wooden stairs of the house. I strolled through the cool rooms, among the paintings and peasant embroidered towels hanging on the walls. I heard the driver calling me. There was neither Dina nor any trouble to shadow my way. But I decided to stay here in my own country.