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Slowly, my ferryboat drifted closer to my dear old home. Before me, the stony peaks of familiar mountains arose from the blue hue, and just as cool salty breezes blew across my face, the childhood memories rushed back into my heart—moving me to shed several wistful teardrops. 

But, as I approached the docks of Fallhill harbor, it dawned upon me that age had punished the city as it has my body. The neat cobblestones had cracked and sprouted weeds. The piers were rotting and the paint flaking and peeling. I ascended the worn stone steps and onto the grand promenade, where in my youth, young elegant couples strolled with all their finery—gaiting as they admired the many fine boutiques —spending afternoons of leisure under the canopies of the open cafes. Alas! Those days are gone. 

The charming stone facades were tainted by watermarks, and the grand Hanseatic townhouses were decayed and dilapidated. The bay windows were broken and boarded ; the fashionable shops and restaurants had closed, though some clung to life and flogged their fading majesty to the odd passerby. 

I then made my way to the Gallery of Fine Arts. In its day, it was much renowned and eager artists from far and wide begged to have but a fleeting moment within its gilded halls. 

But when I walked into its spacious atrium, the vaulted cast iron and glass roof was shattered and dripping with rust. Bronze statues lay broken upon the floor, and the many oak panels and oil paintings were worn and crooked. Not a soul could be seen, except the old curator, who sat idly by and stared forlornly into the dimly lit halls.

I sighed and left to visit the Thrice Tiered Gardens. Built upon a sloping hill on the banks of the azure Vesbyrn river, it was a marvel that had no rival. I still reminisce the long summers I spent amongst its many fragrant blossoms and blooming arbors. How I sat there, amidst a world of my own, gazing at the magnificent view of the faraway sea, admiring the sun as it rose and the moon as it glowed.

But now, it is overgrown, with broken marble vases strewn across the uneven paths. Colorful weeds and vines of every kind now cover the withered orchards and the crumbling pavilions. Only the timeless view remained.

Evening falls and I sit in my favorite corner cafe. Though the years have taken its toll, it is still open. I drink my plum wine and sigh and say to myself, “Love and glory cannot be kept forever, and must be parted with!”

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