The front door opened exactly as it always had. Nothing inside the house appeared different. Yet something had unmistakably changed. Not the house. The person carrying the suitcase across the threshold.
She walked slowly through the house, noticing what weeks earlier she might have passed without a thought. The way afternoon light reached the dining table. The familiar scent of home. The sound of the ceiling fan. The garden outside the window. The stack of unopened mail. The refrigerator humming softly. Everything ordinary. Everything somehow new.
Travel had not taught her to love distant places more. It had taught her to see familiar places again.