Two months blurred into a chaotic whirlwind of bus rides, cheap hostels, and the gnawing hunger of a runaway. His sketches, initially a source of small income, became harder to sell as his meager funds dwindled. The romantic notion of finding his birth parents quickly faded, replaced by the harsh realities of the road. He slept under bridges, dodged suspicious characters, and subsisted on whatever scraps of kindness he could find. The vibrant world he’d imagined – a world where he would be welcomed with open arms by his long-lost family – was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found a world of indifference and hardship, a harsh mirror reflecting the turbulent emotions within his own heart. His dreams of finding his birth parents clashed with the growing realization that maybe, just maybe, going home might not be so bad after all.
He found himself in a small town, sketching a poignant scene of a family laughing in a park. The image brought a pang of longing so acute it nearly crippled him. He thought of his siblings, of the comfortable bed he’d left behind, of the routine that was now so distant. That night, sitting on a park bench, under a sky brimming with stars, Leo made a decision. He wouldn’t abandon his quest entirely – he would find a way to trace his birth parents when he had the resources. But for now, he needed a secure foundation, a place to regroup. The next morning, he bought a bus ticket home, his sketchbook clutched tightly in his hand, carrying not only his art but also the bittersweet knowledge that some journeys lead to unexpected homecomings.
