St. Louis. Missouri.

It was difficult to live after what happened at Hampden. Henry literally despised the fact that he had to get used to the life he thought he had left forever. He had to return home and live in a room that his mother had left untouched. There were still Camus and Fitzgerald books on the bookshelves, and a Pink Floyd poster above the desk. Yes, it was his secret. No one knew, but sometimes Henry liked to listen to them when he was feeling too bad. But with the advent of Hampden in his life, he forgot about Pink Floyd. Apparently, it's time to remember them again.

The food was tasteless, the coffee tasted bad. There was no strength from the word at all. The summer was hot again. Henry couldn't sleep at night because of the migraines that wouldn't stop. It was as if everything around him was punishing him.

The only thing that saved Henry was traveling around the city to gradually remember his native streets. Sometimes, when his leg felt better, he would even walk and explore the new places that had appeared during his absence. Henry tried coffee in new coffee shops, visited a new bookstore (although he was immediately disappointed in it, because, in his opinion, there was only literature for hippies).

One day he was walking through the streets and, as always, he was too deeply immersed in his thoughts. The people around were just black silhouettes or mottled spots. Suddenly, he felt a touch on the sleeve of his blue linen shirt. It happened at the moment when he stopped in front of the showcase and fixed his gaze on the mannequin, who was dressed in a beautiful blue-black suit.

Henry looked back and saw you. You looked like a doll, in fact, he was especially surprised by your sincere and kind smile.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but could you tell me where the nearest library is?" You asked, looking into his eyes.

And Henry answered. He explained the route easily and casually. At that moment, something in my heart skipped a beat. Yes. He's at home. Finally, he's home.