The grocer’s wife shakes her head in disbelief. That’s too far away, she says. But you come back, she asks with a stern voice. I will say, I and nod. We are you used to you now, she says and it sounds as if meant as half a compliment and half an accusation. I smile at her. Queen Cat left with quite a bit of drama. But I was well aware of that. My sister cried. It’s too far away, she says. I’ll be back soon, I say and try to soothe her. But she doesn’t want to be soothed and cries harder. The vet drops by and promises to take care of the house. That’s too far away he grumbles, and I shrug my shoulders. The vet takes the keys and looks at me. You’ll be back, he asks? For sure, I say. Half a smile escapes him. I stop the old wooden clock that always runs a bit too late, empty the last cup of tea, close the curtains and for half a minute I stand in the door frame, looking at the old wooden table, where normally Queen Cat sleeps on the newspaper and the pile of books I decided not take with me. See you in while I whisper, and pick up my bag. For the next three months I will leave the small village of mine, won’t walk along its paths and won’t sit under the elm tree or drive to the beach. The village won’t notice this is for sure, the sheep will be grazing as in every other summer and the grocer’s wife will take every chance to marry off her daughter. Maybe she succeeds. But while I turn the keys and drop them into the letterbox and wave the house good-bye, I feel more sad than I ever thought before. But then K. arrives around the corner and while we’re already late for the airport I have to hurry as usual. Delhi, she says, that’s far away, she says, so far away.