We are walking down that path. Our destination is set. So is the place we are returning to. To the place we used to call 'Paradise' back then.

Walking beside me, you kept your eyes on the ground, staring at a small line of ants. Come to think of it, I feel like I used to observe ants quite often.

Squatting down, I crush the ants with my fingertips without hesitation. I was simply interested. How many would I have to crush before the line broke? How many would I have to kill before the others turned back? I just wanted to know things like that. Seeing that, you grabbed my hand without saying a word. I still don't understand the meaning of your actions back then. The sensation of my heart racing slightly remains strangely vivid.

The wind blows. The grass by the roadside sways, and mixed with that sound, memories of a distant day resurface.

The backyard of the chapel. A small bird's nest high up in a large tree. We went there every day, waiting for the eggs to hatch. The day the shells cracked and a tiny hatchling peeked out. You and I held hands and rejoiced.

But that happiness didn't last long.

A few days later. There was a snake in the nest. It coiled its long body around the branch, opened its mouth wide, and swallowed the hatchlings—who couldn't even fly yet—one by one.

I was watching you as you looked away. I wonder what you thought then. I still clearly remember your profile at that moment.

Eventually, the forest comes into view. A familiar sight. Beyond the trees, a rusted iron gate stands silently.

I'm home.

I have returned. To the empty Paradise.