Harry opened his front door. It was late and he'd drunk a little too much.

He picked up the post from the mat and threw it onto the side table in the hallway. It could wait.

He headed for the decanter in the living room, the flickering streetlight through the window enough to guide him there.

He removed the stopper and began to pour.

"I'm not afraid."

The liquid spilt, the glass remained empty. He turned.

Ruth was standing in the shadows in the far corner of the room.

"I said, I'm not afraid."

"I heard you," he said and decided to try pouring himself a drink once more, "would you like one?"

"No, thank you."

A single, became a double, became a treble.

He raised it to his lips and felt it burn down his throat.

And then he replaced the glass and stared out of the window.

"It wasn't a lie, Harry."

"But it wasn't the truth."

He remained at the window. She remained in the shadows. Neither could find the ground to meet in the middle.

"I would have wanted to say yes, a thousand times over."

"But you wouldn't have."

Ruth sighed.

"No, I wouldn't."

"Why, Ruth?"

"Because I was afraid."

"I thought you said you weren't?" his tone was sad, resigned.

"No, I said I'm not."

He sighed, tired of this.

"Fine, whatever, Ruth, however you want to put it, it makes little difference."

"It makes all the difference, Harry."

"How?" he asked scornfully.

"I was afraid. I'm not afraid. The tense is the difference."

He turned from the window, his eyes seeking her out in the shadows. She didn't move, the darkness giving her shelter, absorbing her fear.

Her voice was but a whisper.

"Ask me now."

The ticking of the clock seemed magnified a thousand times. His breathing sounded deeper, longer, louder. Her heartbeat resounded in her ears. And all the traffic of the city seemed to melt into the night.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Please, Harry."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Marry me, Ruth?" he whispered into the darkness.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The darkness failed to answer back.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He closed his eyes and turned away to the window, his answer only the silence and the clock. He should have known.

Through the glass he could see the trees caught in the wind, the bare branches shivering in the breeze, the fallen leaves seeking escape from the ground.

He could see the streetlight flickering, unsure it would last another night.

He could see the ghost of a figure moving forward into the light.

The ghost of a hand reaching out. A hand hesitantly touching his back, drifting up to his shoulder. A figure that wanted him to turn from the reflection and face the reality.

But he could not.

And so the hand began to insist, to pull, to demand.

Until he did turn.

Until he did face his reality.

Until his reality smiled and paused and whispered.

"Yes, Harry. A thousand times, yes."

A/N And that is the end!