A/N: I have a new(ish) job, started in August. Choir season has started in earnest, with extra practices for Reformation (Lutheran here – it's the 500th anniversary tomorrow, kind of a big deal); Mister was in a play for the last week and a half, and we had guests two of the last three weekends. Oh, and both of us were sick. At separate times.

I have three fics that I've pretty much promised to update (with, um, little success at this point) and a fourth that keeps nudging me.

So what have I done with my limited writing time?

I started writing a new fic.

You'll find my picture in the dictionary, under the word "INSANE".

The credit (or the blame) for the inspiration for this one goes to my parents. I helped them move to their new house in July. One evening when we were sitting around the table in their nearly-empty apartment, listening to my dad's phone play some of his favorite music (most of which I was unfamiliar with), the Carpenters' song "Superstar" began.

The story just unfolded itself in three minutes. The title is a phrase from that song.

Once again, this is an AU. And M. Once again, I'm taking these characters out of canon and trying to keep them real to themselves in a completely different setting. The second chapter is likely going to be the most NSFW – for reasons you'll understand. The rest of the story? Not so much.

Love it? Hate it? Want to scream at me for not updating other stories? Please send me a line. Your feedback really does make all the difference to me. :-D

I hope you all are having a good autumn!

*"To the Rose upon the Rood of Time", by William Butler Yeats

"The Lady of Shalott", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

August, 2017

A blast of cold air fans the top of Charles's head, fluttering his grey hair.

He doesn't notice.

The air conditioner frequently kicks on during the dog days of summer. All the more so at the hospital.

Sybil reads aloud slowly. Each word calm and clear. Her Ipad rests against its holder, the video recording her face and voice.

"...Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot or an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott."

Charles resists the urge to shift in his uncomfortable chair. His back aches, and there is an itch behind his right ear that's driving him crazy.

But he ignores his own discomfort. The task before him is more important. Holding the book steady for Sybil to see, he breathes out through his nose.

"…But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

The Lady of Shalott."

Robert sighs beside him. Charles thinks he knows what his old friend's thoughts are – that it was not so long ago that Sybil was newly married herself. Blissfully happy.

Before she became pregnant.

Before she had the ultrasound that discovered a mass that was not supposed to be there.

Before she refused treatment until her child was old enough to be delivered safely.

Before she had cancer.

"…Who is this? And what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott."

Sybil waits a beat before smiling into the camera, then she hits the red button. Immediately, she sinks back against the pillow, closing her eyes. Robert leaps to his feet.

"Darling, you push yourself too hard! No more today, you need to rest-"

"The last thing I need is to rest," she shoots back. "I'll have plenty of time to rest later." Though her voice is a whisper, and her eyes are still closed, Charles can sense her defiance. Her will to persevere.

To do what she can before the end comes.

She is dying, and they all know it.

She has been reading aloud favorite poems and stories, recording her face and voice, so that her infant daughter will be able to see and hear her after she is gone.

Her courage and single-minded determination moves Charles like little else has in his life.

To distract from the tears filling his eyes, he closes the book and sets it aside, finally scratching his ear. Robert picks up the Ipad. He plays the video just recorded. Sybil's voice fills the room, and they listen to Tennyson's words.

"Excellent," Robert sits back down. "She won't have to do that one over." He speaks in a lower voice, glancing at his daughter. One of the machines beeps next to her bed. "Or that awful Yeats poem, thank heaven."

Charles raises his eyebrows. "You know she didn't read it to spite you…it was for Mr. Branson's sake."

For the life of him, he will never be able to refer to the young man as Tom. Beryl often says he acts more like he lives in the nineteenth century, rather than the twenty-first.

I haven't always.

The Yeats poem Sybil read earlier has brought back uncomfortable memories.

"…In all poor foolish things that live a day,

Eternal beauty wandering on her way…"*

He is the poor, foolish one.

Robert's voice brings him back. "…should be glad Sybil didn't become enamored with anyone more exotic than a proud Irishman."

"There are worse things," Charles replies drily. "At least he plays cricket now."

"Reluctantly. And only because Matthew talked him into it." Robert leans back in his chair. The room is quiet for several moments, except for the air conditioner and occasional beeps from the various medical paraphernalia.

"I'm more than happy with my life," Sybil murmurs. "With all my family, both by blood and not…including the proud Irishman," she smiles and turns her head towards the window. "I do love Tom, and I'm lucky enough that he loves me…of course I would like more time with him and with Sybbie…" Her voice wobbles, and she swallows hard. "But at least our daughter will know I've lived life. Never in the shadows, fully in the light. I don't want her to ever be afraid to take risks…I've tried to convince my sisters to do the same. What's the use in hiding what we feel? Or what we want to do? I told Mary if she loved Matthew, she should tell him…and Edith should go for that internship at the webzine. No matter what anyone else thinks."

Robert and Charles look at each other. Sybil has always spoken her mind. They both get the sense she is saying more now.

While she is still with them.

"Who is your lady, Carson?" She whispers. A frisson of pain ripples across her young face.

The line between Robert's eyes deepens. "The treatment makes her…wander sometimes," he mutters, watching his youngest daughter intently. "Sometimes she doesn't make sense." Charles is certain he can see another grey hair appear on his friend's head.

"I am not wandering, Papa." Sybil speaks louder. "I'm asking Carson a question."

Confused, Charles shakes his head. "What do you mean by 'lady'? You know I've never married. Your grandmother is the closest woman I've ever met who I could consider to be a 'lady', if that's what you mean. Your mother is one, too. And Mary. She's been tied 'round my little finger since she was born," he jokes. "And you and Edith are dear to me. You always have been."

"I'm not talking about us," Sybil rests her head against her pillow, her eyes fluttering open. "Or Granny, or Mama. Surely there's been at least one special woman in your life."

He thinks he knows what she means, but he's not about to indulge her. Even now.

"Of course," he says. "My mother."

Rolling her eyes, she almost looks like her old self, other than her sunken eyes, and bald head. "You know that's not who I mean. Granny told me you wrote to your father years ago about a woman. When you were away on a summer job. She said you'd bought a ring, and everything-"

"What? Who was she!? How does Mama know about this, and not me?" Robert stares at him in utter surprise.

Charles can think of several things Violet Crawley knows that her son does not.

It wouldn't be the first time.

"Tell me about her." Sybil's voice is quiet. "The woman. She must have meant a great deal to you. When Granny told Edith and me, we were surprised, but not shocked. We both thought it sounded very romantic."

It wasn't.

"Romances usually end with happy endings," Charles says finally. "This one doesn't."

"You wanted to marry her."

Her gentleness and honesty gives him courage.

"So badly, I could taste it," he hears himself say.

It was true then.

But he has not thought of Alice in years.

If he is honest with himself, it is not of Alice that he thinks of now.

He starts talking. Of a young man long gone, who dreamed of a life outside of an office, away from numbers and spreadsheets and suits and ties and stifling, mind-numbing routine.

When he talks about working in summer stock theatre, Robert is even more shocked.

"Carson, you were on the stage!?"

"I was." Charles keeps his focus on Sybil. She is smiling, taking in every word he says.

He tells her about meeting Charlie Grigg, of forming their double act. Meeting the Neal sisters. Traveling. Hearing applause. Bonding in the way that only actors do.

Robert shakes his head as Charles mentions the stop they made in Memphis. "July, 1977? Did you see Elvis? Those were his last days." He gets up when his phone buzzes. "Sorry. It's your mother," he says to Sybil. "I'll be right back."

As soon as the door closes behind him, a weight lifts from Charles's shoulders.

He leaves now, right when I get to the important part of the story…

He could skip it. Make up something simple, tie up the loose ends in a neat bow.

Sybil would never know.

But he has held some things in his heart that have seldom gotten out.

Certain things he will never speak of again, to anyone.

Some things he can, and does, say.

Sybil's eyes widen when he tells her about Alice and Grigg, and how they broke his heart. About the last shows they all performed at a rundown theater called The Hound.

His gazing up at the stars on a hot August night.

A long oak bar and a complimentary glass of water from a woman standing on the other side of it.

She had a smile that touched his heart. A pair of deep blue eyes that at times still appear in his memory. Dancing with her past midnight on a dusty floor. Kissing in the shadows of a corridor, her nimble fingers in his hair.

Living without regrets, waking in tangled sheets with the strange yet strangely familiar woman in his arms.

Saying goodbye, and yet never quite letting go.

The words come haltingly, as though each one struggles to leave his mouth. By the end, everything is fluid.

It feels so strange to talk about those days. He has never spoken of them. To anyone. Not even to Violet, who he thinks suspects something of this nature. Not to Beryl, who has pried nearly everything else out of him.

He stands, feeling stiff, and leans against the window. It is ironic – outside, it is August, like the days he describes, only the year is 2017 instead of 1977, and he is a completely different man.

I stopped being that devil-may-care young man a long time ago.

"Aren't you tired of shadows?" Sybil whispers.

Her voice makes him start. He has forgotten where he is. That he had an audience at all.

"Carson," Sybil holds her hand open. He leans over and takes it, feeling how cold it is. Her frail bones, the lack of strength.

She and her sisters have always referred to him by his last name. He's never minded it; Robert almost always calls him that. But now that his old memories have been smashed open, he suddenly wishes he could hear his first name spoken.

Though in his mind it is always with a slight Scottish accent.

Charlie, a caress around the r, said in the way she held him in her arms.

Like he was home.

"Sybil?" He asks, mindful of the very real woman before him, and not the long-vanished ghost.

"Carson," she repeats, taking a breath, "I want you to do something for me. It's important."

"Anything," he kisses her head gently. "I'm listening."

"Don't be satisfied with the life you've had," she mutters, her eyes closed. "You've lived alone for a long time, but it's past time you stepped out of the shadows." She opens her eyes, not letting him look away. "Find her."

I can't, he wants to say. "I…don't know her name."

"Start looking at the old theater. Something will turn up. Find her for your own sake, and not for mine," Sybil continues. "Even if she's dead, at least you'll know what happened to her. That's what you want, isn't it?"

He cannot argue with her.

She smiles, a warm glint in her tired eyes. "I only wish I could help you."

He says the only thing I can think of. "I'll try. I promise."

Robert comes back in, tucking away his phone. "That was Cora. She'll be here in a little while, with Edith."

Charles lifts Sybil's hand and kisses it. "I should go. I'll be back tomorrow evening." He holds her eyes for a moment, pleading silently with her.

Don't tell him.

"I'll see you then," she says softly. He sets her hand down on her lap and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, wrapping it so it doesn't fall off.

"You don't have to come every day," Robert says in a low undertone by the door. "I mean, we all appreciate it, but it's hard, I know. You don't have to carry the burden, too."

"I want to." Charles says. "I want to see her as often as I can." He feels the lump in his throat growing bigger. "I've known her since she was born."

Robert claps his hand, his lips pressed together. "I know," he whispers. His eyes fill with tears.

Clearing his throat, Charles lets go of his friend. "Tell Cora and Edith I said hello."

Robert nods, and holds the door open for him as he leaves.

00000

He struggles to control his emotion as he trudges down the pristine hallway to the elevators. No one would think less of him if he cried openly, but he does not want to cry in public if he can help it.

Even if there is a good reason for it.

Taking deep breaths, he waits for the ding of the elevator doors. He is glad no one is inside. He punches the button for the ground floor. Just as the doors begin to slide shut, he hears a nurse's voice call.

"Wait! Someone's coming!"

He throws out his hand, and the doors go backwards again.

"Thank you," a man's voice says. An instant later, a golden retriever on a leash, followed by a wavy-haired man, steps into the elevator. "I do appreciate it."

In seconds, Charles's curiosity is satisfied. The animal wears a vest. He is a seeing-eye dog. His companion is tall and well built, looking like he is in his thirties. His eyes are open, but clouded.

The man is blind.

Below his cargo pants, his left prosthetic leg is paired with his heavily scarred right.

"I thought I had heard a dog in the hallway before," Charles says as they go down. "I did wonder."

The blind man smiles. "Blackjack* doesn't usually bark. My father-in-law likes to get him to bark, even though he knows he shouldn't."

"Is your father-in-law a patient here?"

"Yes." The man's smile fades. "Multiple myeloma."

"I'm sorry," Charles puts his hands in his pockets, wishing he had said nothing.

"He has the best care, I'll say that. The staff here are excellent."

"They are."

"Do you know someone on the ward?"

Charles nods, before remembering the man can't see. "Sybil. Sybil Craw-Branson, I mean."

"I'm so sorry. My sister-in-law knows friends of hers…everyone talks about how wonderful she is."

"She is," Charles's voice wavers.

It isn't fair.

I'll be seventy soon, and she…

"How are you related?"

The doors open, and Charles lets the man and his dog exit first. "We aren't," he says as they both go towards the front doors. "I mean…I'm a family friend."

His heart aches.

They're all the family I've got.

"Blood or not, having someone we love suffer is never easy." The man slows as the automatic doors slide open. Hot summer air blasts into their faces. The western sky is still light, but cars on the highway have their lights on.

"Too true." Charles slides his glasses out of his pocket, and checks his watch. It has slowed. He makes a mental note to take out the battery when he gets home. "Are you waiting for the bus? The express should be coming along in about ten minutes or so."

"Oh no," the man turns to go down the sidewalk. "Thank you, though. I'm taking Blackjack to the pet area. My mother-in-law will be here soon."

"Ah. Well, I hope your father-in-law improves." From the look on his face, Charles rather doubts it, but he wants to be polite.

"Thank you. And…I am sorry about Sybil. We're all praying for her."

"We appreciate it."

Walking to his car, Charles leans his head back. Stars are coming out in the evening sky. He opens the door of his Jetta, and waits for some of the obscenely hot air inside to leave before getting in.

He has to wait at the stop sign for two cars to turn into the parking lot. One has come from the highway, a big white Suburban, and its headlights sweep across his vision for an instant before leaving him in the darkness again.

He drives home, thinking of Sybil and story she got out of him.

Forty years go by before I tell someone.

I'll never find that woman…it's impossible.

You promised to try.

It would not be the first time you made a promise without keeping it.

00000

Elsie stifles a yawn while she's driving. Normally she hates driving on the highway, but she's done it so often lately that it no longer fazes her.

I'm not that farm girl anymore.

I haven't been, not for a long time. Not really.

The thought makes her feel guilty. She still lives on the farm that she and Joe have run for close to thirty years, but it has always been his pride and joy, not hers.

Now she is the one who runs it, while her husband lies in a hospital fighting for his life.

It is a fight she knows he is losing.

At the familiar exit, she gets off and waits at the red light before entering the hospital grounds. A handsome Jetta idles at the stop sign as she turns. Someone getting off a shift, or leaving after visiting a relative, more likely.

Humid air invades the Suburban the second she opens the door. By the time she gets to the sidewalk, carrying her purse and bags, she can feel her shirt clinging to her back.

I should have waited to shower here. What's the use?

Stars appear in the evening sky.

She walks more in the direction of the pet area, out of instinct. "Hello," she calls, seeing Edward there. Turning in her direction, he smiles.

"Hi Mum," he comes over with Blackjack, and she kisses his cheek.

"I thought I'd find the two of you here-oops, sorry." One of the bags slips off her arm and onto the ground, partway onto Edward's foot.

"Let me carry it," he says. Elsie picks up the duffel by its straps and hands it to him. He pulls the straps over his shoulder. "It's heavier than usual – what did you bring?"

She sighs as they go into the hospital. "You remember Joe talking about that mantle clock? The one that belonged to his gran? Well, I got it out of the attic. I cleaned it up as best I could, but it's dead. I want him to look at it, to see if he wants me to take it to a repair shop or-"

"-or let Thomas play with it for an hour and work his magic," Edward finishes. "He'll probably ask him to look at it before having you take it anywhere."

"Anna texted me before she left. I hoped to be able to see her tonight," Elsie shakes her head. "I want to ask her about John Bates myself, instead of hearing about him secondhand."

"You will," Edward reassures her. "She told me she's determined to be here when you're here this week. At least once."

In the hallway near Joe's room, Elsie stops to talk with a red-headed nurse.

"I knew it," Ethel says. "I knew when Edward took Blackjack out for a walk, I'd soon get an interrogation from you." She tries to smile, but it does not quite reach her dark eyes. "He's…so-so today. Not much worse than yesterday, but no better."

Elsie's heart sinks. "Well," she swallows, fumbling with her purse, "that's to be expected, isn't it?"

She braces herself before going in. Coming every day, the changes in Joe are not dramatic to her, but it is hard to see him wasting away, when for so long he was strong.

He smiles when he sees her, the thin skin around his eyes crinkling. "Els. How are ye?"

Dropping her purse on a chair and leaving the paper bag on his tray, she sinks down onto the bed next to him. "Hot." She kisses him, careful to be gentle when she gives him a hug.

He does not raise his arms to embrace her back. It hurts to see him so weak.

"How's the crop?" He whispers. She tells him about the farm as she bustles around, getting the Chinese food out of the paper bag, filling a plate for Edward, then unzipping the duffel and unwrapping the mantle clock.

Joe's eyes light up when he sees the heirloom. "You remembered." She sets it next to him, and watches as he touches the face. "It looks good…did you clean it?"

"Thoroughly."

"Thank you. It looks good."

"I thought maybe Thomas could look at it when he gets back on Wednesday," she says. "Or I could take it to a repair shop, if you think it needs a more professional eye."

"There's not many who could do a better job than Thomas in fixing it," he murmurs. He flexes his fingers, and rubs at the tape around his IV.

"Seeing as either he or Anna will end up with it, I thought you'd trust him with it." She smiles.

My lad and his clocks. He always did love them.

Joe stares at it. His whiskers have grown longer, and she knows he'll want a trim soon.

"Edward," he begins, then stops to cough. "Would you-would you mind giving us a moment? Alone?"

Their son-in-law sets down his fork in the corner and stands up. "Sure. Just come and get me when you're done. The orange chicken really is good, Mum. Thanks."

"It isn't," Elsie whispers to Joe as the door clicks shut. "But China King is the only place where I could get it on my way here." She frowns, seeing the look on her husband's face. "What is it?"

Joe reaches for her hand. "I've been thinking about the farm. What happens to it after I'm gone…I want you to sell it. The farm machinery, too. And anything else you don't want. The land's good, and you'd get a good price for it. Maybe even have a little left over after paying off all the debts."

It is a complete reversal from what he was insisting just days ago, when they had last talked about it.

"Are you sure?" She raises her eyebrows. "I thought…we all thought you wanted us to keep it."

She wonders why he wanted Edward out of the room. Did Joe think he would try to change his mind?

"I did, once," he says. "But it's not practical even if one of you wanted to keep farming the land. Which I know none of you do. No, not even you. I'm not angry, Elsie," he squeezes her hand. "If anything, I'm grateful. Grateful that you've been beside me all these years. Stood by me when I was stubborn…when I was stupid, too."

He pauses, and there is an uncomfortable silence. She thinks she knows what he's thinking, but she does not want him to dwell on it.

Nor does she want to think about it.

"The least I can do is to make sure you get something out of being married to me," he whispers hoarsely. "I still wonder what would have happened if I'd never met Ivy that summer…if I'd asked you to marry me our last year at university, like I'd planned."

Elsie's heart feels like it is being squeezed. It is so rare for Joe to open up like this, and she knows it's important, and yet it brings back so many memories that she has tried to forget.

Without success.

The mention of Ivy, Joe's first wife, gives her an opening to dodge her discomfort. "What about Peter?" She asks. "He's your son. The farm belonged to your aunt and uncle for years, and before them, your grandparents. Have you asked him about it?"

"I don't have to. He hasn't been back here for more than two days in years, you know that." He sighs. "I'm glad he finally got his life back on track. But he's never wanted to be a farmer. Anna is fond of the place, I know, but she has her own job, her own life. So does Thomas, and Edward with him." He touches the wooden outer shell of the clock. "I couldn't ask your children to take it on. It's not in their blood."

It is as though icy fingers have brushed the back of her neck. She flinches. "They are your children, too," she pulls her hand away. "You helped raise them – you're the only father they've known! You were so supportive of Thomas when he was in school, and you knew Anna since she was eight-"

"They were yours before I came crawling back to you," he speaks a bit louder. "They've always been yours first. You were both mother and father to them, and they would have turned out fine if I hadn't come into the picture."

She once saw a boxing match on television. The two fighters spent most of the time in the ring dancing around each other, feeling each other out. That's what it feels like to her.

There is a creeping sense of dread, that Joe is going to talk about what she fears most of all.

What is the POINT, if he does? It doesn't matter.

I can't go back and change things.

"That's not true," she whispers, not sure if she believes herself. "You've influenced them both, in different ways. They love you."

"Which is more credit to you, for raising them to be decent human beings. Anna is sweet…she's the daughter I never had…" He stares at her, forcing her to meet his eyes. "And Thomas…I tried. You tried. He tried. We're friends, and that's the closest we'll ever be. And that's okay."

She tries to make a joke. "Once, the two of you being friends would have been a bridge too far."

He smiles. "Once."

The room is quiet, except for his monitor and the air-conditioning kicking on again. It reminds her of a dimly-lit hotel room, and she pinches the palm of her hand to keep the memory away.

Not now.

"I should get Edward," she says, standing up. "His dinner's getting cold."

Joe reaches for her hand again, and she takes his. "I want you to sell the farm for your sake too, Els. Not just for the children's sake. You need to live for you after I'm gone. You've always been unselfish, looking after everyone else. But I know a part of you has wanted to try new things, to see what else is out there. That's why I wanted you to take that cruise last year."

"You, and Thomas, and Anna and Edward," she says. "You were supposed to go with me."

"Ack," he leans his head back. "It worked out better that you went alone. You needed that time." His eyes are wistful. "You should have seen yourself when you came back…you were happy. Glowing. Chattering about the people you'd met, the places you'd seen. I've only ever seen you that happy when the children were home."

"You've made me happy, Joe." She leans over and kisses him. I wish he wouldn't run himself down. "I've known you since I was a girl. I would never have said 'yes' when you proposed if I'd thought we wouldn't be happy together."

He reaches up and pulls a strand of hair from her face. "Aye, I know. And believe me, when you did say yes I was the happiest man alive." His smile flickers. "We've had some good times, you and I. I hope you'll find someone to spend the rest of your life with who understands you better than I do…I think you did, once."

Her heart stutters. "I don't know who you mean."

"I think you do. The same summer I met Ivy."

She closes her eyes. She does not want to remember. Not the pain, not the wondering why things happened the way they did.

It is hardest to remember how happy she was. How carefree.

Living without regrets.

It was a different time, and I was a very different woman.

"How can you say that he meant so much to me," she whispers, "When I don't remember his name? Or even what he looked like?"

"He left his mark."

To her eternal relief, Joe says nothing more about it. He simply squeezes her hand, and gestures to the door. "Go on, bring Edward back in here. We were talking about different breeds of dogs…seems he and Thomas are thinking about adopting one."

When he tells Edward that he's changed his mind about the farm, the young man does try to convince him to hold firm. But ultimately he acknowledges his father-in-law's wishes.

Joe falls asleep soon after.

Elsie eats her dinner, then she and Ethel make up the pull out bed in the corner. It's bigger than what it seems. Though Elsie can't seem to sleep any better on it than she can sleep alone at home, in a bed she used to share.

"Thank you for taking me home," Edward tells the nurse out in the hall. "Anna said to tell you she owes you a coffee."

"Another date with the mysterious Mr. Bates?" a smile hovers on Ethel's lips. "My, my. She must be serious about him."

"Not serious yet," Elsie retorts, only half-joking. "It's only serious when she introduces him to her mother."

"Fair enough." Ethel takes Edward's arm. "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night," she says, rubbing her arms. Is this a hospital, or a deep freeze?

"Good night, Mum," Edward calls as they go down the hallway. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

She checks on Joe, then reads a bit. She's learned it's no good to try to sleep when a nurse will come in right after. Instead she reads until she gets drowsy, then she crawls onto the sofa-turned-bed.

Memories prick at her brain. They keep her awake.

She remembers more than she lets on. Not that she lets herself think of those days too often.

But sometimes the memories come flooding back when she least expects them.

When I was still a student, with the world in front of me…when I was still young.

When I thought I knew what love was.

A dark curl on a smiling man's face. Leaning across the bar to hand him a drink.

More than once across the years she has come out of sleep with the half-remembered memory of his warm hands on her. The way he held her close, like he didn't want to let her go.

The way his eyes flickered from hers to her lips. The way her heart beat when he kissed her.

Her heart aches.

He promised to come back.

He never did.

She has gotten over her disappointment years ago.

Or did she?

You had your own life to live, as did he.

It would have been a different life if he had come back, she muses.

Under the thin blanket, she turns over, trying to find a comfortable spot on the pull out bed.

"Charlie," she whispers under her breath.

She does remember his name. Still.

Just not his last name.

What happened to you?

Why didn't you come back?