He caught his reflection in the darkened window of the station office. He stopped, startled. The man looking back wasn't the vibrant youth who had left ten years ago. —today, his hair was shot through with silver, a map of the sleepless nights and back-breaking shifts he had endured under gray, distant skies.
How would you like to of the story—should it be more tragic or focus more on the celebration of his return? He caught his reflection in the darkened window
The door creaked open. An elderly woman stepped onto the porch, squinting against the evening light. Her face was a landscape of wrinkles, each one a prayer she had whispered for his return. When her eyes finally met his, the years of distance vanished. "Sorinel?" she breathed, her voice a fragile thread. —today, his hair was shot through with silver,