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Our home is tinted with orange.
Our home is tinted with orange. The furniture, fixtures, walls — even the light from the windows — everything tinged with an aura of apricot. It’s glow cruises into the night sky, casting rust upon the houses nearby, showing us we are almost there. Not far to go. I can see it in the amber shadows between the streetlights.
The car struggles over the final hill, somehow finding grip on the clay-coloured road to make it up the final stretch. It recognises we are there, breathes a final roar of relief as we pull in between an old vauxhall and a 4x4.
The lights are off inside. The timer won’t come on for another ten minutes. We have made it back before our bedroom lamp scares away those home invaders who have been watching to steal a little of our golden kingdom, desperate to come inside to bask just a moment in our sunrise rooms.
But now we are home. We let the engine idle for a moment. There is no rush. The long hours on the blue road are past. The indigo night has given way to the sandstone glow of sanctuary.
We finger the house keys, so long ignored in the base of our bags, absorbed by their magic — their promise of plumping pillows and wombing covers.
Here is peace.
Here is rest.
Here is home.