Dashboard

The plane descended through layers of cloud and light, and James watched Dublin unfold beneath him like a story finally beginning to reveal its plot. The Liffey wound through the city in silver threads, and the streets arranged themselves in patterns he'd only imagined from maps and books. There is always a moment in travel when the real world refuses to match your expectations—not because reality is disappointing, but because it contains more details than your imagination could have assembled. This was that moment.

The airport was all pragmatic efficiency, the kind of place where time moves differently than in the rest of the world. He moved through security with the practiced ease of someone who has done this hundred times before, yet his hands betrayed him—slightly trembling as he gathered his documents. Not from fear, exactly, but from anticipation. Emily was supposed to meet him at baggage claim, and he found himself walking faster than necessary, his heart doing something elaborate in his chest.

She was there, of course. There is rarely drama in real life, only the accumulated detail of ordinary moments that somehow add up to something that feels profound in retrospect. She held a cardboard sign that said "Welcome Home" with an arrow pointing not at him but at the city behind him. It made him laugh—that unexpected kindness of humor in the face of genuine emotion.