He thinks one of the things he'll miss most is the way the sky turns the most beautiful shade of amber just minutes before sunset, making the fields of swaying corn look like waves in search of a beach; although he's never been able to convince himself that the joyfully gliding swallows are seagulls.
He'll miss the tantalizing scents wafting from Martha Kent's kitchen on crisp autumn afternoons, when bubbling apples and berries seek dominance over the aroma of warm bread cooling. The scents always make him think of home, even though his has never been blessed with such a bouquet.
While he knows Rachmaninoff will be his to discover again, he wonders if his past, his experiences, colors his delight in the symphonies. Will he find the same joy in listening to the movements without watching Clark's half-lidded green eyes lose themselves in the music?
He knows he'll have to rediscover why Jonathan hates his family so much and knows the easy truce they had reached will forever be shattered when he forgets the significance behind the compass. But even the compass won't help him find his way home this time. Lionel has made sure that he'll never have a safe haven or a refuge from the world.
He closes his eyes and leans back against the sterile padded wall and takes some comfort in the fact that he won't remember how Clark abandoned him to face his fate alone.
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