He took the steps down from his porch almost eagerly, though his face wore an air of practiced compassion. For he was leaving his old life behind to begin anew. His wife detested him, his children were indifferent to his presence, and he could no longer bear the quiet cruelty of it all.
When his foot touched the first stone beneath the stairwell, he stopped.
A terrible longing seized him - a pull so strong he nearly dropped his suitcase where he stood and turned back to the house he fled. That house of horrors. He imagined himself climbing the steps again, offering apologies he had already given, staying for the sake of duty rather than love. Was it cowardice to leave? Or selfishness? The thought of his children sleeping under that roof pierced him - their small hands once wrapped around his, their laughter once meant for him. He wondered if abandoning them now would forever brand him a failure of a man.
The weight of that guilt nearly crushed him.
But then he remembered why he stood there at all. A different longing rose within him - not one of fear, but of life. He longed for adventure, to see the world, to travel, to meet unfamiliar faces and hear unfamiliar stories. That hunger had been starved by an unhappy marriage, followed by children who once loved him dearly - and whom he loved just as deeply - before resentment slowly poisoned every shared breath.
He stood frozen on that first step, his bag resting beside him. On one side of his mind lay his family, heavy with obligation and regret. On the other lay the possibility of a future not yet ruined. He understood then that staying would not heal what was broken - it would only teach them all how to endure misery in silence.
With that realization, he took another step. Then another. And another.
Soon he was beyond his property, walking steadily toward the train station, the weight of his past finally shifting behind him.
Who knows what adventures lie before him - but we know, with certainty, the horrors he has already survived.