I transfixed on the warm oak door, my senses ablaze: the smell of cinnamon and the sound of voices long unheard swam through the wood to settle freely around me. My vision shook as lights glimmered across slivers of tinsel and mischievously escaped through the keyhole. Bodies moved from room to room wrapped in the warm glow of a soft gold light.

Spaces had endlessly expanded and shrunk between us over time. But now, I stood separated not by miles but a door, behind which the real versions of those same people I’d learned to carry in my heart now lingered in the delight of each other’s smiles, in moments and memories, in a blanket of love weighed down by selflessness and gratitude and promises we’d try our best to keep. I reached out, and felt the merciless cold of the iron door handle curl itself into my palm -- first with confusion, then what seemed to be recognition.

Time slowed; the door opened.

I was home again.

Charlie Clarkson is a copy editor with chinadaily.com.cn.