He arrived in Bosnia early in the morning. Stepping off the plane, he immediately breathed in the air, the scents of home, of winter, stacked firewood, and dusty roads.
Cross rented a car from a place he already knew and headed for his childhood home without switching on the navigation. He drove in silence, with no music, the window open and one hand held outside.
A gray, gloomy sky hung over the hills, stretched unevenly above the old world. Here, childhood returned through touch: the coolness of stone, the warm boards of the porch, his father’s familiar hands. The narrow road ran alongside vineyards where a few leaves still clung on, reluctant to let the season go. The drive from the airport passed in what felt like an instant, gradually dissolving the bustle of the city into the quiet of the countryside.
He pulled up outside his parents’ house. He had come without warning. Before him stood the old two-story house with carved shutters and a wrought-iron balcony. It was just as it had always been. Time seemed to have stood still. Cross switched off the engine and sat in the car for a few seconds before stepping out and taking a deep breath of the crisp country air, free of the polish and dust of big cities.
Once he crossed the threshold, the house greeted him with warmth, the smell of homemade pie, and the freshness of mint. One of the maids hurried down the hallway without noticing him. He walked farther inside, unhurried, returning to a younger self he had long ago locked away like an attic full of precious memories. His mother, Mrs. Emira, stood at the stove in the kitchen. Her hair was neatly pinned up, and her eyes were stern but warm. She was whisking something in a bowl.
Cross came in without a word, walked around the table, and lifted her into his arms despite her startled cry of protest.
“Cross!” she laughed breathlessly. “Put me down! What are you doing, my boy?”
“Mom…” he exclaimed. “I’m home.”
She touched his face with her fingers, and tears instantly shone in her eyes.
“You could have told us you were coming.”
“Then you’d have had time to cook ten dishes and scrub the floors three times,” he said with a grin. “I wanted to see the house… the way it normally is.”
Just then, they heard tires crunching over the gravel. His father had arrived. A couple of minutes later, a familiar voice sounded in the hall.
“What’s this? A coup without any warning?”
Ismail Begovich came in wearing a tweed coat, a briefcase in his hand. He stopped at the sight of his son.
“You.”
That was all. One word, but it held surprise, joy, and a worry he kept hidden.
“Dad.” Cross went over and hugged him tightly.
“You sly fox. No warning again.” Ismail patted his shoulder, holding him close. “But good for you. We’ve missed you.”
Then his sister-in-law, Esma, came running in, her hair loose and her face beaming. Behind her walked his brother Kenan, tanned, with a farmer’s muscles, followed by three boys as noisy as a band of outlaws. Little Selma came last, carrying a pink rabbit.
“Uncle Cross!” the boys shouted. “Uncle Cross is here! He brought us something! We know he did!”
