The Brown Hour Hand

The morning was cold, yet the sun had risen thoroughly from its slumber. Laying awake for the past few minutes, haggling with my thoughts the prize of the journey I was to embark on. I had just a picture. A fruitless journey I was told.

The path to the painted house was still virgin. It had no trail of footstep on it, yet the stench of a thousand crowd filled the dry leaves as I trempled on cautiously.

A lonely walk through the woods. Ferocious looking woods.

A picture in hand as a guide, a thought of home tumbling in my head to keep me sane. I kept staring at the picture of an old painted house in my hand, nothing to remind me of familiarity. Not even nostalgia.

Half an hour. An hour. Two hours gone by and still no painted house. Only birds painted by mother nature’s brush of fate roaming the air for food, water or mate. As I endured the ache on my feet, a wooden structure few meters away could be seen in the distance. Old, yet firm to the terrestrial ground.

Standing 3 meters away, the painted house didn’t seem how it was described. It was hugely painted, yes. But it had a halting look that scared birds away. It had mahogany trees surrounding half of its field, hinting a forest habitat of some kind. And hackberrys shooting out baring no fruits like it was barren out of habit.

I was in the field and I could hear an habanera playing in the air. Was it me, or was it what my senses could hear. It sounded soothing at first, yet irritating. I haven’t heard that melody in a hundred month. A hackle was also laying in the field. Who was been lazy? How often does such lazy sight hop into light? I pondered. The field was looking haggard like the last person that worked on it had hunger as a serious demotivator.

Still, it didn’t seem to me that the description I had was right.

Walking towards the house, I felt a heave of familiarity at the close sight. The house was painted, yes. I stared closer at the picture I had in hand and it almost looked the same as the house in front of me. Only for one missing piece. I raised my stare 7 feet above my height and there it was, the brown hour hand.

Eureka! I was home.


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