Souvenir

The heat was oppressive—thick with humidity, offering no relief, only discomfort. It was doing nothing to help him unwind. Wasn’t this trip supposed to be some kind of magic reset? You get on a plane in London and the moment your feet touch Southeast Asian soil, your worries evaporate. That was the idea, at least.

Now he sat outside the airport arrivals area, sweat mingling with the residue of thirty-plus years in the corporate grind. His body was leaking—moisture, yes, but also old stress, old identities. The last email from Daniel still throbbed in his mind. Daniel, the charmer, the manipulator, the guy trying to steal credit for a project he barely understood, feigning expertise with the casual arrogance of someone who’s done it a thousand times. And the worst part? He knew that game too well—he had been Daniel.

Ambition. Not the noble kind. The cutthroat, performative type. He had claimed expertise where he had none. He’d assumed others were too slow or too polite to call his bluff—and many were. God, how many were.

Five more minutes passed in the same thought loop that had trapped him for the last ten years. Eventually, he flagged a taxi. Maybe the nature would help. His hotel was buried in a tropical paradise—lush, quiet, and, supposedly, inhabited by elephants. Elephants. He hoped the people were different here too. Kinder, maybe. How could anyone be toxic when surrounded by such empathetic animals, in a land shaped by a selfless, soft-spoken religion?

Five weeks later, he was on his way back. Finally. He had looked forward to this moment—returning to London, to the office, to the chaos he understood. The jungle he knew.

Maybe the trip had worked. Something had shifted. He remembered the day Daniel, after months of cold war over a coveted role, surprised everyone in a team meeting. "I’ve had a new idea," Daniel had said, "and I think I want to focus on developing that instead of this position." Just like that, he’d bowed out. Daniel had the upper hand, and he’d handed it over without a fight.

Strangely, in that moment, Daniel had reminded him of an elephant. Towering, imposing—but gentle in a way he hadn’t expected.

Now he stood at the hotel reception desk, suitcase by his side, waiting to check out. The receptionist, whose smile seemed to contain an entire archive of emotions—every one of them serene—looked up.

“We’ve loved having you with us these past five weeks,” they said in a voice as smooth as the air before a tropical rain. “We hope you found peace here.”

“We noticed you left a piece of luggage in the room.”

“Oh, yes—it was broken. I had to replace it. Could you dispose of it for me?”

“Of course.” Still smiling. “That’ll be one hundred dollars. I’ll add it to your final bill.”

“One hundred dollars? To throw away a suitcase?”

“Unfortunately, sir, that is our policy.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t want to. He didn’t have the energy to argue. He just… missed Daniel.

Yes, the five weeks had changed him.

He used to crave distant places—the ones he’d read about, seen in films, dreamt of. But he realized something: while he’d never been great at self-presentation, others were. And somewhere along the way, he’d lost a part of himself. A version that was easily awed. That restless version had pushed him to travel, to chase meaning, to run.

It was also the part of him that left him perpetually unsatisfied, always seeking more, never grounded. It had made him miserable. But it had also brought him here. And now, it was gone.

He waved goodbye—to the receptionist, to the elephants, to the country, and to that part of himself.

It was Saturday. He’d land on Sunday by 3 p.m.

And Monday, he’d see Daniel.