The sun was peeking slightly above the horizon, illuminating the bustling streets of the city below. Not one passerby glanced up to bask in the new day with its glorious sky but still humble beginning. The sky was a watercolor painting, filled with hazy purples, blues, pinks, and so on. It was dazzling. Yet no one seemed to pay it any mind.
There was only one exception. The young man resting in a hospital bed had been awakened by the dawn's glow. His eyes remained glued the breathtaking sight, but his thoughts gently drew back into pleasant memories. It brought him to what had transpired a month ago.
The memories were crystal clear despite series of events that had left him reeling in shock, and then realization. His feelings were unchanged, and the distance seemed to only strengthen them each passing day. After all, memories were powerful, relentless things.
John Smith would never forget his encounter with Pocahontas. His Pocahontas.
Oh, how he had been so blind before meeting her! He often couldn't help but a small chuckle of shame to dance upon his lips at the recollection. He had been so blind, but Pocahontas removed what was all shielding his sight. John Smith could see now. He could see everything.
And so, he began plotting for a way—any way—to get back to his dear Pocahontas as the city went on without him. He wouldn't miss it.
He had a home to return to.