The cornfields near Boq's childhood home were exactly as he remembered them. A sea of waving yellow stalks were parted only by a winding dirt road marred by potholes and mud puddles. As a boy, he had run breathless through the fields in childhood games of tag. To prevent himself from being "it" all the time, he'd run off-path and hide behind the stalks. Sometimes, he would jump in the puddles, just to see the satisfying picture of mud flying through the air.
Not that he could do that anymore. He was far too old for such things and his feet would rust if he submerged them in a puddle.
Was coming back to Munchkinland a mistake? Most likely. There wasn't much left for him there anymore except bitter memories of his past life. He might as well be a different person. Still, he tromped forward. If Dorothy could make it back to Kansas, why couldn't he return as well? No place like home, right? At the end of the path were the only people who might still be there for him.
This was it. The field gave way to a simple farmhouse. Although Boq hadn't been there since before Madame Governor took power, the passing of time had little effect on its appearance. The house was small, with a sloped, straw-padded roof, chipping white paint revealing dark wood underneath, and a front door that never quite hung right on its hinges. Smoke gently rose from the chimney, letting him know someone was inside.
His steps slowed. The front door loomed in front of him. Boq raised a clenched hand to knock, but froze before touching the door. Did he have any place there? Did he still have the right to see his mama and papa, or his older sister, or his younger brothers? Did they believe he was dead, or that he abandoned them? Would they even recognize him, all metal and hinges, as family?
If that door opened, whoever stood behind it would most likely scream in terror at the sight of him like the Governor had. Then again, maybe they wouldn't. He was one of the Heroes of Oz now, someone who had a hand in the Witch's demise. Surely that must count for something. He could explain that he was the way he was because of witchcraft, and they'd understand. Wouldn't they? Or would the fact that he was tainted with wicked magic be enough to drive them away?
If he knocked on that door and it opened, questions and curious stares would soon follow from the people who were supposed to know him the best. They may even cast him out while gawking at his strange appearance or blaming him for their oppression under the Governor. He couldn't bear the possibility, and couldn't handle another rejection. Perhaps it was better not to know.
Boq lowered his hand and left the stoop, retreating once more into that golden field.