their lamps constantly flickering-
begging for someone
anyone
to stop by 
and say hello
acknowledge their existance.
the houses are small and
squashed together, 
but no one feels the discomfort
they each know their neighbors and beyond
they like it that way.
during the night
time slows
almost but never pauses
and the people come out
girls with their hair braided
careful works of their mothers,
boys with their hands tucked in their pockets
careful works of the universe,
everyone else with their voices
and they gather around not a fire
but rather the aftermath
the hot coals burn neon red and orange
and the people tell their stories
the universe intently watching them
allowing a hesitant silence in the world
during the day
they resume their lives as "normal" people
but they know their place in the stars
the universe reserved it for them
and every time without fail
whenever someone enters their home
they welcome them with open arms
and say,
"welcome home."
they teach the wayward traveller their ways
allow the wayward traveller to partake in the silence of the world
send the wayward traveller on their way with tearful goodbyes 
and know the wayward traveller knows
should they have ever been wondering in the first place.