Elias realized then that an "Arrival" isn't just the moment your feet hit the pavement of a hometown. It’s the uncomfortable gap between where you were and where you’re going. It’s the deep breath you take before you step out into the rain and realize that while the streets haven't changed, the way you walk them has.

stood by the sliding glass doors, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He wasn't waiting for a person, but for a feeling. He had spent ten years away, and he expected the city to look different, or perhaps for himself to feel heavier. Instead, he just felt thin, like a character sketched in pencil against a background painted in oil.

He grabbed the handle of his suitcase, the wheels clicking against the linoleum. The doors hissed open, inviting him into the humid afternoon.

He had landed. Now, he just had to figure out how to stay.

Under the flicker of the Arrivals board, the world was reduced to a mechanical rhythm of names and cities. Every few seconds, the board would shiver—a frantic clattering of plastic tiles—rearranging itself to announce a new batch of souls. London. Tokyo. New York.