Last time around

Entering through the open doorway, the scent of old books and forgotten words washed over him. He realized the length of his absence.  He gazed upon his surroundings, as if recognizing his home for the first time.  His travels had taken him far afield of the things he once loved, spectres of years gone by, he thought lost to the sands of time.

He let his thoughts linger momentarily upon these memories, but surprisingly, not experiencing the emotions or fears that had plagued him before.  He pondered the possible deeper meanings, and decided to push these thoughts away. He knew all too well the pain that came along with looking for shadows, where none exist.

He knew he had survived things that should have killed him. He had pushed too hard, too soon, to move on from tragedy. Finally, he had the necessary rest that his body and mind required to heal.  Gazing on phantoms of the past, he heard the baying of wolves in the distance, not feeling the yearning in his heart to join their roaming as he had so often before.

There was no peace, no serenity, washing over him as he reflected.  None of the isolation or withdrawl that he suspected would be coming from the loss of his pack.  As the howls echoed in the wind, he wondered at his solitude and freedom; he reveled in it.  He chuckled quietly to himself out of incredulity, knowing himself a fool.

Closing the door behind him, he looked at his travel stained clothes and dusty boots.  He hung his hat on the hook beside the door, running his fingers through thinning, greying hair, his bone-deep weariness sinking in.  He smiled, enjoying the aroma of old books, understanding that, finally, he was home.