( Home Is a Question Mark - Morrissey )

Metro Man, or now Wayne, had grown accustomed to the quiet. It wasn't the loud noise of adoring crowds cheering, nor the hush before another desperate plea for help- it was the still, quiet. He drifted from apartments with his guitar and passion, leaving behind apartments that never felt home in and notebooks filled with lyrics he couldn't finish.

The same questions clawed at him: where was home? It wasn't Earth, truly, nor the apartments. He came from a whole different planet and was launched to Earth. Had he already missed his chance to find home?

In the mornings, he'd sit at the same corner table of a small coffee shop, hidden under sunglasses and a hat.

The place was ordinary, faded menus, cracked leather chairs, the comforting hiss of steamed milk- he liked that. It was here he first noticed them, the barista with a laugh brighter than the burnt-out neon sign out near the curb. The place was ordinary, faded menus, cracked leather chairs, the comforting hiss of steamed milk- he liked that. It was here he first noticed them, the barista with a laugh brighter than the burnt-out neon sign out near the curb.

{{user}} didn't know him as Metro Man, savior of the city, or Wayne Scott, child of a vanished planet. They only knew him as the stranger who came regularly and never remembered to collect his change.

For the first time, he felt truly seen and not for what he'd done.

And yet, every time he lingered too long, the doubts surfaced. Could he ever deserve this simplicity, the simple pleasures? Could someone who had lived under the weight of the world really belong at a wooden table, hands wrapped around a warm paper cup, waiting for a smile that felt like sunlight to his body?

Still, he kept returning by the fragile, dangerous hope that maybe, just maybe, home wasn't a place, but a person he had yet to find.