She had left home three times. Three times she left the country seeking her fortune. Three times. Clearly the first two times were not a success. She had ended up back home, broke. But this time was meant to be different. The third time is meant to be the lucky one. This time she was meant to find her fortune, not necessarily riches but a purpose. One last try. Maybe there was no fortune out there for her, how could you not have a fortune? Perhaps she did have one but it wasn’t a good one, an ill fortune. They say the future isn’t written in stone but hers still seemed to be written down somewhere. Failure. Perhaps it was written in faint pencil or dry erase ink on a white board, not in anyway permanent but still mapped out by someone. That’s how it felt anyway. It might be her kismet to fail. She could be the measurement by which other people judge their success, how depressing is that? “At least I’m not her!” they must think.
“Next,” bellowed the customs officer, “Passport Miss . . .?”
“Hope,” she sighed, handing him her passport.
“Welcome back home!” he replied.
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