On a sunny morning, she returned. With no announcement. Just like she had left.
The children danced about her white and orange robes, her sister smiled at the deep glow on her face, her mother held her hand, like one would, of a little child walking down a crowded street, her father started noticing the birds on magnolia trees outside.
She sang, she danced and she took over a bit of everyone's life. She always had some little tidbit to share and some tale of distant lands that we had only heard of. Every morning, she rose with the sun, watching the birds and singing the song of the winds. Soon, she became the patch of calm that everyone seeks, amid the obsessive clamoring after wild dreams.
They watched her with affection all day long and left home, waiting to come back to her joy.

And then one day it started raining. She packed the only five set of clothes she had, and walked out of home.
She left before sunrise. She left just like she had returned.
Now I don't know what is worse - the cold rain or her mother's hot tears. The whistling of the winds or her father's lost poetry.