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I nervously glanced at the red number displayed on the wall of the local police headquarters, yet the digits refused to move. It would still be some time before I could present my documents and application to legally remain in a country far from my own. Surveying hundreds of other people squeezed into the cold room, I noticed mothers with colorful head wraps nursing babies, pacing fathers with furrowed brows pulling on their moustaches, and children creating games out of the broken chair arms to pass the time. Most of all I listened to the barrage of chatter – rarely did two languages match. Each of us was hoping for the stamp of approval on our documents: permission to stay, permission to belong. The young woman with dark eyes across the aisle kept looking at me, taking me in. Even among all the variety in the room, I stood out. The rough material of my grey skirt scratched my knees as I shuffled one foot over the other. She seemed too young to be a mother, yet she had two little ones with endless curls running around as she tried to calm them, and a wrapped bundle pressed to her breast. Exasperated, she looked at who must have been the father, but he was too preoccupied tracing and retracing his steps on the floor. Tentatively I pulled out some crackers and looked at her questioningly, indicating the children. She returned my gaze with one both wary and relieved. Though unable to speak with each other, the time somehow passed more quickly as we gestured to each other about her children, the lines in front of the windows, and the chilly air. When my number pinged on the display, I was rewarded with a small smile as I walked away. I looked for her often as I walked the cobblestone streets of that city. On the bus or swaying in the tram, I found myself searching for those eyes accompanied by two mops of curls. Instead I found myself talking to men with weather-beaten faces, women who had pictures of their children hanging around their necks, and parents herding kids with backpacks - their young charges speaking this foreign language much better than I. Gradually the sights and smells began to feel familiar, and my tongue hesitated less and less as I made the once-strange sounds. Fifteen months later, I pulled a heavy suitcase as I stepped onto the train to start my return journey. Through the window, those dark eyes slipped past me as we rolled forward. I smiled at her blurred image as I left, unsure if I was going home or leaving it behind.