She often returned to the old window in her mind. Not because it was beautiful, but because it still carried the warmth of childhood afternoons — the sound of distant birds, dusty curtains moving with the wind, and the feeling that life was once simple and endless. Now, every place feels temporary. But somewhere inside her, a small part still sits by that window barefoot, listening to summer quietly pass by. Homesickness is strange. Sometimes you are not missing a place — you are missing the person you were when you lived there.