The train arrived at a town south of Prague as dusk settled. The town's name had been worn away by time, leaving only faded letters on the station sign: *Z*—perhaps *Zahrada* (Garden), perhaps *Západ* (West). On the platform, an old street lamp flickered to life, its dim halo filled with the scent of tobacco and freshly baked bread.
The streets were narrow and winding, cobblestones smoothed by centuries, flanked by low brick houses crowned with mossy roofs. Shop windows displayed hand-knitted scarves, old books, and dried bouquets, exuding a quiet nostalgia. Samira carried Karim on her back, the mailbag slung over her shoulder. Inside it, the ember-star pulsed warmly against her side, a persistent heartbeat.
The town center was a small square dominated by an ancient apple tree, its trunk thick and gnarled, branches heavy with leaves. Small lamps hung among the boughs, twinkling in the twilight like stars brought down to earth. Wooden tables and benches nestled beneath its canopy. In one corner, a tiny bakery glowed, its window steamy with loaves fresh from the oven, filling the air with the rich, comforting scent of wheat.
Samira settled on a bench under the tree, Karim on her lap. He looked pale with travel-weariness, but curiosity lit his eyes. He reached up, fingers brushing one of the tiny lamps; the light danced on his skin like captured starlight.
"Sis," he whispered, "where is this?"
"South of Prague," Samira answered softly. "A place with apple blossoms."
She pulled the blank postcard from her mailbag. The penciled lamp wick on the back seemed to glow faintly in the tree's light. She thought for a moment, then wrote:
*To all names still on the road—*
*We were lost in the fires. Now we meet under apple blossoms.*
*Next stop: South of Prague. Where hearth smoke and apple blossoms bloom together.*
*—Samira & Karim, 17.7.2025*
She left the postcard on the bench and walked to the bakery. The owner was a kind-faced woman with silver hair and gentle eyes etched by time. She took the postcard Samira offered, glanced at it, and smiled. From under the counter, she produced an old postmark stamp shaped like an apple seed, its edge engraved with the town's name.
"Welcome south of Prague," she said in accented English. "This is your postmark."
Samira took the stamp and pressed it onto the card. The ink bloomed like a seed taking root on the paper. She tucked the card back into her mailbag, feeling a quiet shift within her.
Back under the tree, Karim was asleep, his breathing even as a quiet stream. Samira broke the warm bread into pieces, feeding him gently. The scent of wheat filled the cool evening air, a tender comfort.
Lights brightened around the square as the townsfolk gathered. An old man walked with his grandson; couples murmured beneath the branches; children chased each other with laughter. Watching them, Samira felt a hollow place inside her slowly filling.
"Sis," Karim murmured, waking slightly, "I hear Mama singing."
Samira looked down. The ember-star rested in his palm. It was dark now, but held a core of soft light. She took his hand, placing the star in her own palm. It pulsed faintly, warmed by her touch, like a heart beating again.
"Mama is singing," she whispered. "She's telling us this is home."
Night deepened. The small lamps swayed gently in the breeze among the apple blossoms, countless unyielding stars. Samira held Karim close, leaning back against the bench. She closed her eyes, listening to the distant singing—not her mother's voice, but the townspeople singing together. Their song carried the sweetness of apple blossoms, the warmth of hearth smoke, and a peace she had never known before.
Here, at last, the northernmost point became the southern origin.