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Less be the man who turns away travelers
More be the man who travels himself
Equal be the man who welcomes the road yet returns home

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The old cowl of the traveler lies draped acrost the weathered cherrywood chair; placed like an old friend in his neighbors home. There the breeze drifted under the darkened folds, faded by rain and snow. The open window's shutters lazily flapped back and forth, its wings flightless and defeated in their way; yet life within this dusty abode was warm.
Dying coals in the corner fireplace gave little heat to the creaking bones of the house. Dire still the clouds looked outside, ready to unleash their fury on the places they passed. A simple latch held the worn-smooth door in place, preventing its own escape to the shattered front stoop. Each golden hinge on that dark wood door was bent by many years of disrepair.
Even the carpet lay in defeat inside the threshold, its frayed threads gripping at the dirt floor with finely spun fingers. The bleached and faded patterns on both it and the banner on the wall drooped mournfully at the loss of their tenant, who had gone years before. Lowly the wind whistled through this battered broken house, caressing its dying spirit.
The door then flew open, static running through the very being of the house as an old hand gripped the brass doorhandle with a firm but gentle touch. The ash-ridden coals heated slightly as the window's shutters ceased to flap aimlessly at ominous skies. The carpet, which had splayed lazily across the floor, curled its fingers in, raking the dirt clean of all the debris that fell in its path. The muddy, worn boot stepped inside just once and the colors brightened within, drooping shades tightening in the breeze, shutters closing slowly and fire springing from ashes.
The old cowl sat still upon the chair as an old hand rested upon his beloved friend's shoulder. Picking up the faded folds of beige to ebony, the house settled, dust disappearing from the tables and dishes.
It seems their traveler had returned.