Farewell to San Francisco

More about Farewell to San Francisco

The evening came quietly. Not with fanfare, but on tiptoe, with long shadows, a soft sky, and the golden flickering of the first streetlights. One last day in the city that Mollie had welcomed with an open heart. Now he stood once more at the edge of a hill, his backpack over his shoulder, his paws buried in the pockets of his suspender jeans. In the background, the Golden Gate Bridge stretched like a red thought over the water—familiar yet unrealistically beautiful. He let his gaze wander. Over roofs that gently leaned against one another, as if they wanted to warm each other, over streets that whispered of all the lives that lost themselves and found each other in them every day. Then Mollie walked back—not in a hurry, not with regret, but completely at peace with himself, as if he were now entering the city differently than he had that morning, when he had crossed it in wonder. Past house facades, to which he now gave faces – grim, kind, dreamy. Past the curve with the chalk drawing – long since erased by life. Only a hint of blue remained, like a sunken promise on the pavement. He smiled. Everything had its time. Even a painting made of chalk. At the edge of Golden Gate Park, he sat down on the same bench as on the first day. The bridge was still there – proud, red, against the light. But something had changed. Not the bridge. Not the sky. Not the city. But Mollie. He took a deep breath. The sea smelled of salt and wanderlust, of stories yet to be told. Beside him lay something: a feather. Large, gray, with a silvery shimmer. Percy had already moved on – the old sea eagle with which he had flown over the bridge. Of course. Eagles never stay in one place for long. They carry the wind in their feathers. Mollie took the feather, held it up to the sky, let the light glide through it. And smiled. Memories, he thought, are like feathers like these. You can't hold on to them—but you can take them with you. Then he set off. Not hastily, not heavily. Simply at his own pace. The streets led him back, full of shadows and stories. The tram took him part of the way. A bus rumbled over the hills, as if it wanted to say a little goodbye to each farewell. And at some point, the forest reappeared. The trees stood there like old friends. The ground was soft, the air filled with the scent of home. A firefly lit up—as if it had been waiting. Mollie stepped through his small, round door, put down his backpack, took off his shoes, and sighed. The dust of the city still clung to his soles. Then he sat down at his typewriter. He ran his fingertips over the keys as if waking them. And he began to write: "I went to see something great. And in doing so, I found something even greater: courage." He continued typing, while outside the wind gently played the wind chimes, and in his heart a last light of San Francisco lingered.