Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion - Democritus

I stepped on those stairs after a really really long time. The sound it made breathed familiarity.

I traced my fingers on the walls that had absorbed the echoes of lost chatter, anger and laughter. The reverberations made my heart skip a beat.

I walked into the hall that I had swept and laid carpets on. My fingerprints are still on them, but they have been masked by the several successors.

I felt the breeze through the window I had sat by. It tickled my ear; it had missed me.

Crumpled manuscripts, stained by repeated handling, were pressed between younger fingers. I have held those papers. The words printed on them were different then.

Faces I knew have more lines on them now. Yet, there is a twinkle in the eyes that tells me that memories are keeping the hearts youthful.

The binding on the books have changed, however, they still smell of the places I took them to; the fallen flowers against which they laid on the ground, when I rested my eyes from them.

The tables have been painted a fresh colour, but they haven't erased the markings I made on them.

Scribbled notes are still passed.

Suppressed giggles are still heard.

Things, actually, don't change as much as we think they have.

Its been a while since I left that place. I have moved on, but there still remains a part of my jigsaw there. It always will. And every time I go back it'll fit into me and rekindle a me that is long gone.

It is a bitter-sweet symphony, that's life.