A cave deep in the spine of the continent.

An old stub of a candle re-lit to light the way. Books rearranged and dust swept up. Dry twigs and limbs crackled gaily in the hearth. Home again? or a brief respite from the confusing world outside? The kettle whistled, begging to be united with the dry leaves in the teapot. Clumsy fingers spooning precious sugar. The sweet nectar of life giving off its lively scent to the dead empty space. A cup and saucer, an old yellowing volume with a feather to mark the page, a cozy couch by the hearth. Is this home?

Is this home when the heart is no longer in the cave?