As I grew older, I came to understand the color Sundays have — all of my Sundays.

I realized that all my Sundays carry the fragrance of longing, scented with nostalgia.

When I was a child, I delighted in the gatherings of grown-ups, and my mind would wander wistfully into fairytale worlds where anyone could easily become anything.

Then I grew up.
The fairytales grew narrower, and the gatherings of adults became fewer. And the more they faded, the more longing took hold of me and kept me in its grip.

I longed for distant cities, for gentle people and steady winds, tenderly brushing past ruins, soothing wounds, bringing dreams.

I began to travel. The Sundays of exile taught me what true longing is, what the pain of homesickness truly means.

In the stillness of Sunday, my mind would drift and roam everywhere. Yet above all, it searched for a return: a home, a hearth, an open embrace waiting in expectation.

I returned many times. I left again even more times. The longing was never tamed.

And when I was asked to create an ornament above the doorway of an Athenian house, I could find nothing else to inscribe but an ancient ship, tormented as it journeys through the waves, stubbornly persisting in its search for the path of its lifelong return.