Richard Castle looked pensively through the glass that separated his Manhattan penthouse from the sights and sounds of the naked city outside. A soft and steady rain had descended upon the town, and the blurring of the lights below transformed New York into a vast, spectral kaleidoscope of color. The sound of the raindrops on the glass reminded him of the tapping of fingers on keys, a sound that brought with it both the warm comfort of familiarity and a harsh, gut-wrenching cloud of anxiety; he had already decided what he had to do, but nature had deemed it appropriate to send one last reminder of what once was and what could have been, one last hurdle to clear before the end.

It would have been enough to break his heart, were his heart not already shattered.

Castle closed his eyes against the rush of emotion that threatened to weaken his resolve and breathed deeply, as if he could summon the strength he needed to follow his chosen course from the air around him. If such a thing were possible, he would need it all for what had to be done.

He had hoped that things would be different, this time. He shuddered as images from that day—the day when everything changed—flashed through his mind like a slideshow from a nightmare: the flag draped over the mahogany coffin that held the mortal remains of his friend; the mourners gathered in a sea of black, their faces twisted by shock and grief; the uniformed officers lining the path to the resting place, their steady gaze and ceremonial posture providing a sense of grounding in a world that felt as though it was spinning out of control; and Beckett, all dressed in blue, at war with herself as she took the podium to eulogize her captain. He knew the battle she was fighting at that moment, knew that her duty as ranking officer and as friend provided her with a place to hide from the guilt and loss she was really feeling. He had wished for the opportunity to save her, to gather her in his arms and be her safe place, but he knew her too well to pursue it. She would have run from him—from herself—so far and fast that he would be left clinging only to a fading memory, a fleeting shadow of the woman who had been his muse, friend, and partner. So he watched as she wrestled, listened as she buried her emotions deeper and deeper beneath the poetic farewell she had prepared for the man who had stood behind, beside, and in front of her throughout her entire career, and he wept—not merely for himself, nor for the captain's family, but for the woman he lo—

The woman he loved. He had known the truth of it, long before his mind was able to articulate it. He struggled still to put voice to it, though to be fair, the perfect opportunity had never presented itself. No, his mother was right—he wasn't good with words when it counted, so he'd drawn Kate a map, instead—a map where grand gestures served as a legend and where the value of the treasure itself was in doubt, having been plundered by others before her.

But if she'd been able to decipher his emotional cartography, she'd given no indication of it—so he loved her as he could, and at that moment, loving her meant standing beside her on a dais of flowers and mourning, ever vigilant, should she need him for other things. She'd spoken eloquently of finding a place to take one's stand, and being lucky enough to find someone to stand alongside her. She'd glanced at him then, catching him in a quiet moment of reflection, and he returned her gaze in a kind of acknowledgment, as if to say, "Yes, Kate. I will stand with you. Always."

Castle turned away from her only because a glint of sunlight had flashed across his field of vision. It was subtle, small—it could have been a reflection from a watch or the screen of someone's cell phone, perhaps. It wasn't until the second flash that he even entertained the thought that it could be something else, something more sinister—and by the time he'd decided to act, it was already too late. The air around him had exploded with the sound of thunder, which was odd, because the sky was as clear and blue as the waters of the Caribbean. He knew even as his body made contact with hers that the sound he'd heard was not thunder at all—it was a gunshot. Intertwined, their two bodies collided with soil, and for a brief moment, Castle allowed himself to think—to hope—that the would-be assassin had missed, that he'd been able to protect her, to save her. But as he pulled himself up, he'd seen the crimson stain spreading across her dress blues and her face wearing a look of sorrow and shock, and he'd known then that the woman he loved was now bleeding, maybe even dying, in his arms. And in that moment, his voice had found the strength to speak what he'd been feeling for so long:

"Kate—I love you. I love you, Kate."

She looked into his eyes for one brief moment, and for Castle, that moment contained a lifetime of emotions—love, joy, worry, dread. And when her eyes closed, Castle could almost hear the gates of his own life slamming shut, their chains rattling out a dirge of fear and pain that echoed in the caverns of his soul. He'd held her then, held her as though he were her anchor to this world, as if he could tie her to the earth by sheer force of will and the weight of his own body, and when the paramedics finally arrived, they'd found him still clutching tightly to her wounded form. He still remembered feeling her slip away from him as the medics pried him off, and though he was unable to speak, he was screaming inside: Kate! Please stay with me! Don't leave me! I love you! I love—

Castle shuddered as he departed his memory world, having been prodded back to reality by the chirping of his cell phone. He knew it was Beckett, knew it even before he crossed the room to answer the call, just like he knew what he had to do. Knowing, however, didn't make it easier. Castle sighed deeply. Now comes the hard part, he thought, and picked up the phone.

To be continued!