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"Return to Antelias" is a short, introspective narrative that explores themes of memory, disconnection, aging, and emotional restraint through the lens of a man revisiting his childhood home in Lebanon. The story employs a minimalist style, quiet humor, and understated tension to reveal the complex emotions that accompany nostalgia and the passage of time.

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Return to Antelias

 By Harry Arabian 

It was 6:30 on a calm Sunday evening, the kind that drifts slowly into night. Herald sat in his Boston living room, remote in hand, waiting for the news. His phone rang. Andy’s picture lit up the screen — he was grinning beneath a crooked party hat.

“Hello, Andy,” Herald answered, cautious but curious.

“Hi Herald, I’m glad you’re home. Got a question for you,” Andy said, voice buzzing with urgency. “Do you remember saying you’d like to join me on my next trip to Beirut?”

Herald hesitated. He did remember — vaguely. Five years ago, at a class reunion in Glendale, halfway through a bottle of Cabernet, they had promised each other things no one expected them to follow through on. “I wasn’t serious, Andy,” he said.

“Wait, let me explain,” Andy jumped in. “I promised my nephew I’d be at his graduation in Beirut. My wife and I had tickets, but she backed out. The airline won’t refund hers — only transfer it. So... would you take it? Free trip. I’ll be your guide.”

Herald looked around his dim apartment. The silence had grown heavier lately, pressing down like humidity before a storm. “When?”

“June 25th. Just a week. Come on, man — you could use a break.”

He chuckled softly. “All right. Sounds good, my friend.”

—

A long flight later, including a layover at Heathrow, Herald stepped into the hot air of Beirut. Andy’s extended family greeted him warmly and whisked him to their home in Antelias, just north of the city. On June 29th, they watched young Samir — the pride of the family — receive his engineering diploma. Andy’s joy was infectious; it was, he said, the first and only family graduation they’d ever celebrated.

The next day, with the city still basking in celebration, Andy proposed a nostalgia tour.

“I’ll drive,” he said, brushing off Samir’s offer to chauffeur. “We’re here for a short time. I’m Herald’s official tour guide.”

After a light breakfast, the two old friends hit the road. Andy navigated with confidence through the town that had once been their childhood playground. But Herald struggled to recognize it. Towering glass buildings had risen where corner stores used to be. Streets felt narrower, as if time had squeezed the past into tighter quarters.

As they cruised down the main boulevard, Andy slowed the car and pointed to a second-floor balcony of a white multifamily building. A woman leaned against the railing, coffee cup in one hand, cigarette in the other.

“That’s Amal,” he said casually. “Our old classmate. I promised to say hello if I came back.”

Herald squinted. Her profile was unmistakable. “Amal? The wicked witch of Antelias?”

Andy burst into laughter. “I thought you two were close! Rumor was, you were seen holding hands.”

“Never happened,” Herald said quickly. “She started those rumors. We were classmates, that’s all. She wanted to be more, but I had a thing for Amina.”

“Amina?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “The tall girl? Herald, you hardly reached her shoulder!”

Herald sighed. “Height difference separated us.”

Andy pulled into the nearest parking spot. “Well, time to visit the wicked witch.”

“You go ahead,” Herald said, unbuckling. “I’ll be across the street at the coffee shop. Send my regards.”

As Andy crossed the street toward the building, Herald watched from the café window, his espresso cooling before him. He could see Amal clearly now — same sharp angles, same air of defiance. She hadn’t changed much. Or maybe he had changed too much to tell.

He caught a flicker of movement — her eyes turned toward the café. Did she see him? If so, she gave no sign. Herald looked away first.

Antelias had changed, yes — but not entirely. Some ghosts still lived on balconies, sipping coffee, waiting for someone from the past to wave hello. And some ghosts stayed behind the glass, watching, uncertain whether to wave back.