Once upon a time, there was a wandering migrant who had been traveling through the desert for years. He had no home, no family, and no friends. He had been walking for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to be still. The sun was his only companion, and the sand was his bed.

One day, he stumbled upon an oasis. It was a beautiful sight, with palm trees swaying in the breeze and a pool of crystal-clear water. He drank from the pool and rested under the shade of the trees. For the first time in years, he felt at peace.

As he lay there, he realized that he had been searching for something that he could never find. He had been looking for a place to call home, but he had been carrying it with him all along. Home was not a place, but a feeling. It was the feeling of being content, of being at peace with oneself.

Years went by, and the wandering migrant grew old. He knew that his time was coming to an end, but he was not afraid. He had lived a good life, and he had found what he had been looking for. As he lay on his deathbed, he looked up at the sky and smiled. He knew that he was going home.

The end.