All roads lead to Rome, they say,

but not all who walk them are looking for a city.

Some follow the curve of longing, the echo of a place they’ve never seen,

Others just keep moving,

because stillness once felt too much like silence.

Rome waits, ancient and open,

holding the weight of footsteps,

of endings that were really beginnings.

But somewhere along the road,

between one turning and the next,

the path softens.

The map loosens its grip.

And you realize,

it was never the stone gates or distant skyline

that called you forward.

It was the quiet remembering,

threaded through every mile,

that Home

was walking toward you too.