Some places never leave you. You may pack your life into boxes, chase dreams across state lines, lose yourself in noise and neon somewhere else… but your hometown — if you're lucky — waits. Silent. Still. Familiar. And when you return, it doesn’t ask questions. It just opens its arms.
Olympia did that for me.
The other night, I wandered the streets I once knew by heart — only now with a camera slung across my shoulder and a heavier heart than the kid who once ran these sidewalks. I was searching for light, but I found something else: pieces of myself I didn’t know were missing.
McCoy’s Tavern still glows like a memory too loud to forget. Its neon sign buzzed in the night air — the same way it must have for decades — a beacon for the stories that start with laughter and end in songs you don’t remember singing. Above it, a hand-painted sign reads The Real McCoy. And it is. A place like that doesn’t pretend to be anything but what it is — and in that honesty, I found a kind of peace.
I crossed 4th Avenue — where the scent of rain still lingers in the concrete and the traffic lights feel more like old friends than machines. Olympia Coffee Roasting Co. stood there in warm light. I used to sit near those windows, younger and full of ideas. Now, I stood outside — camera focused — realizing the world moved, but the heart of this city didn’t.
At Well 80, the lights are sleek and modern, but inside, it's still that same old Olympia magic: laughter echoing off the taps, the clink of glasses, strangers talking like they've known each other forever.
I kept walking, and there was The Spar Café, neon intact, heartbeat steady. I remembered sitting at that bar on a rainy day, thinking I knew everything. Turns out, life teaches you more after you leave. But the barstools are still there, waiting, just like the stories they hold.
Then I found Hannah’s. The red awning above its door looked worn — tired, maybe — but strong. Just like the people who built this town. Just like the people who stayed.
I turned corners and found alley walls screaming in color — graffiti shouting truth into the dark. The city still breathes art. Still makes space for wildness, for rebellion, for the unspoken things. I swear I heard it whisper back to me.
And then, the Capitol dome came into view.
It hit me harder than I expected.
There it was, lit in shadow and memory — standing tall over fountains and flags, over years and versions of me. I stood still. The wind moved through the trees like it was breathing. Like the city was alive. And maybe it is.
Maybe cities are living things, stitched together by our footsteps, held together by the people who remember them who love them, even from far away.
I looked through my camera again. Framed the shot. But this time, I didn’t just see buildings or streetlights or reflections in water.
I saw home.
I saw forgiveness.
I saw who I was… and who I still am.
And maybe — just maybe — that's why we come back.
Not because we’re lost.
But because we finally remember where we belong.
-H44-
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