Darius: The Call Home
South of France: Early 2023
Darius stared at the cracked ceiling of the tiny room, the faint hum of a heater barely cutting through the January chill. His breath rose in soft clouds, dissipating like the ambitions that had once kept him moving. The baby’s cries from the next room pierced the quiet again, sharp and insistent. He hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he blamed the baby.
The young couple, friends of friends, had taken him in when he’d landed back in France late the previous year, his travel funds evaporated and his wellness “influencer” groups struggling to gain traction. What had started as a confident online project—bridging human connection through storytelling and mindfulness—had withered under the relentless churn of algorithm changes and the oversaturated market: even in its infancy, AI and its well-rounded litanies seemed the ubiquitous answers to humanities’ challenges.
“Maybe this isn’t what people need right now,” he had muttered during one of his few recent live sessions, the comment section painfully empty.
The atmosphere in the apartment was strained. He felt it every time he stepped into the cramped kitchen, the way the couple’s conversation quieted, the careful politeness in their questions about his plans.
“I’ve got some things in the works,” he’d say, avoiding their eyes.
But the truth was, he didn’t.
It wasn’t just the lack of money or direction that weighed on him—it was a gnawing sense of purposelessness, a creeping awareness that the threads he’d woven into his identity were fraying. He could still hear Éloïse’s voice in his mind sometimes, low and hypnotic: “You’re meant to do more than drift. Trust the pattern. Follow the pull.”
The pull. He had followed it across continents, into conversations and connections that felt profound at the time but now seemed hollow, like echoes in an empty room.
When his phone buzzed late one night, the sound startling in the quiet, he almost didn’t answer.
“Darius,” his aunt’s voice crackled through the line, faint but firm. “It’s time you came home.”
Arrival in Guadeloupe
The air in Pointe-à-Pitre was thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His aunt met him at the airport, her sharp gaze softening only slightly when she saw him.
“You look thin,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s get you fed.”
The ride to Capesterre-Belle-Eau was a blur of green —banana fields and palms swaying in the breeze, the mountains rising in the distance like sleeping giants. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy sweetness of the land, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the south of France.
“You’ll help with the house,” his aunt said, her hands steady on the wheel. “And the fields. Don’t think you’re here to lounge.”
He nodded, too tired to argue.
The first few weeks felt like penance. His aunt was tireless, moving with an energy that gainsaid her years, barking orders as he struggled to keep up.
“Your hands are too soft,” she said once, glancing at his blistered palms. “Too much time spent talking, not enough doing.”
Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—only a brutal honesty that cut through his haze.
Evenings were quieter, spent on the veranda with plates of steaming rice and codfish, with the backdrop of cicadas’ relentless and rhythmic agitation. She didn’t ask about his travels, his work, or the strange detours his life had taken. Instead, she told stories—of storms weathered, crops saved, neighbors who came together when the land demanded it.
A Turning Point
One morning, as the sun rose over the fields, his aunt handed him a machete.
“Today, you clear,” she said.
He stood among the ruined banana trees, their fallen trunks like skeletal remains of what had once been vibrant and alive. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.
With each swing of the machete, he felt something shift inside him. The physical labor, relentless and grounding, pulled him out of his head and into his body. The repetitive motion—strike, clear, drag—was almost meditative, a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the land.
By midday, his shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His muscles ached, his hands stung, but for the first time in months, his mind felt quiet.
As he paused to drink from a canteen, his aunt approached, a rare smile softening her stern features.
“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” she said.
“See what?”
“That life isn’t just what you chase. It’s what you build.”
Over time, the work became less about obligation and more about integration. He began to recognize the faces of the neighbors who stopped by to lend a hand, their laughter and stories sending vibrant pulsating waves resonant of a community he hadn’t realized he missed.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, a group gathered to share a meal. Someone brought out drums, the rhythmic beat carrying through the warm night air. Darius found himself smiling, his feet moving instinctively to the music.
The trance of Éloïse’s words—the pull she had promised—dissipated like smoke in the wind. What remained was what mattered: it wasn’t the pull but the roots —the people, the land, the stories they shared.
The Bell
It was his aunt who rang the bell for dinner one evening, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the humid air like a call to attention.
Darius paused, the sound resonating in his chest. It reminded him of something—a faint echo from his time with Éloïse and Renard, but different. This was simpler, purer, untainted by manipulation.
He looked at his aunt, who was watching him with a knowing smile. “You’ve been lost a long time, haven’t you?” she said quietly.
Darius nodded, unable to speak.
“Good,” she said. “It means you know the way back.”
By the time he wrote to Amei, his hand no longer trembled. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own,” he wrote, the words flowing easily. “its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”
For the first time in years, he felt like he was on solid ground—not chasing a pull, but rooted in the rhythm of the land, the people, and himself.
The haze lifted, and with it came clarity and maybe hope. It was time to reconnect—not just with long-lost friends and shared ideals, but with the version of himself he thought he’d lost.