You call a place "home" even if this is not your real home, because you feel at home here. It's a rare sensation, a bit confusing, especially when you're abroad. But it exists, it belongs to some kind of reality. Some places know you as you know them.
And after a few moments, you realize it's almost the same, but slightly different. You sit, and relax, and try and identify this narrow discrepancy between yesterday and now. And after a few thoughts, you know. You know why home seems slightly different. Something has changed. But the only thing that changed is not home, it's you.
Something happened since last time.
Home. The place where you smell a perfume made of relief and light melancholy.
Your seat is there, waiting for you.
You buy sunflowers, as you did every other time, at the corner of 22nd St.
There is a book that seems forgotten on the coffee table.
Who knows what's written on the last page ?
Something happened. That's how it works. And that's why you go home sometimes. To take a deep long breath, to face the truth in a quiet moment, and remember what happened to you.