I wake up early. I try to go back to sleep, but I’m done. I sneak up and I find my book and my tea in the dark. My roommate’s breathing changes as the floorboards creak, but I hope he can go back to sleep.

As the hours pass, the people in the tiny hostel start waking and moving around. I have finished my book and I leave it on the common bookshelf. My roommate has woken up and I go to take a shower.

When I go back to my room the floor is chilly under my bare feet and fresh morning air floods into the hallway. Birds are chirping and the familiar scent of inscence fills the air. I brush my teeth and look out on the street below, on the big tree which I don’t know the name of and the church on the other side. I like the tree, and I have already heard the bells chime a couple of times. They are beautiful.

People move and chat in a relaxed way. I can hear the traffic passing by on the bigger street which lies nearby. I remember that it is Sunday, a luxuriously unsignificant fact to me. I consider what to have for breakfast. I consider whether I should ask to leave my backpack here until 16-ish, or if I should bring it with me.

Tonight I am leaving this continent for Africa. Another set of seasons will welcome me. The flight is long and I am scared. I wonder how the fear will feel this time, and as if it was a routine, I ask myself if I have any regrets at this time. Not really, but I decide to call my parents some time during the day. Can’t hurt.

The clocks chime once: half past ten. The sparrows debate lively, the traffic passes. Someone opens a can of soda in the kitchen. I decide to bring the backpack. No need to walk in circles on a day like this.

…

(This story told in pictures.)