THE PRESENT~ October 7, 2056

I remember the day he died like nothing else. I remember the heavy mist, the uncomfortable draft, the cold wind that blew through our walls and straight into our bodies. I remember that radio signals were down, so I lit candles and did the best I could to remedy the obvious discomfort surrounding our house. It hit me like a dagger in the chest every hour he didn't come home, each long, deathly silent minute until the worried stutter again rang from Jamie's little lips, "When is daddy coming back?"

A breeze rattled the windows, her frail and sickly three-year-old body shuddering in surprise. She wasn't well, she had never been well. I cursed myself for allowing her out of bed, but the simple possibility of her father returning for but one night had excited her beyond rest. She gazed longingly out the window, her little blue eyes, as old and wise as the wind itself, serving me as mirrors to the past. She had his eyes, and his lips, and his dusty coal-black hair that stubbornly refused to lay flat, that awkward little cowlick, right in the middle of her forehead. Just like him. Little Jamie bared only a slight resemblance to me, and for this I was glad. I would rather she not have inherited my awkwardly unattractive family characteristics.

Another unwelcome shudder of wind announced a knock on the door, interrupting my train of thought. Jamie's face lit up, and she scrambled to her feet, flipping up the corner of the carpet with a skid of her tiny shoe. My first instinct, a flutter of the heart, a flicker of hope, it was him, he was home, everything was going to be fine. But no, it couldn't be him. My heart plummeted again, and I grabbed Jamie's thin shoulder before she bolted to the door. It wasn't him. He never knocked. She kicked and fought for a moment, and gave up, realizing it was useless. I eyed the door nervously, snatching her up into my arms, as she was still abnormally small and light. I may not have been able to pick her up otherwise. I reached in front of me, grasping the rusty silver door knob with one hand, barely keeping hold of Jamie. A violent gust of wind blew the door all the way open, and some leaves blew in towards us.

A familiar figure stood in the doorway. The young man sported a head of fiery red hair that tossed violently in the wind, along with an awkwardly large messenger-bag that seemed to be sliding off his shoulder. His hands, covered with fingerless black gloves, clutched a package. He was relatively short, although he didn't appear so next to me. His dusty brown army jacket was several sizes too large, and hung almost down to his knees. Karkat was well known as the AFD (or Armed Forces Director) around town, despite his slightly controversial reputation and his measly age of twenty-one. He was the youngest AFD in decades, not to mention the smartest, along with one of my family's closest friends. As happy as I usually would have been to see him, his uncharacteristically stoic expression made the knot in my stomach tighten.

His bag began to fall in the wind, but he caught it quickly. I stood still, holding Jamie, not saying a word. There was only a handful of reasons he'd show up uninvited like this. I tried to smile or to say something, but my mouth wouldn't move. I didn't even possess the ability to invite him in from the cold. He shifted the seemingly heavy package in his arms before looking up to meet my eyes.

"Listen," he mumbled, "About Eridan..."

I squeezed Jamie close to me. This wasn't the way it was supposed to end. He couldn't leave me like this. We were young, we were just getting started. We had a daughter. He couldn't just go and get himself killed. I felt a warm tear fall down my cheek.

"Angela," He swallowed uncertainly, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I-I'm so sorry..."

Jamie slipped from my grasp, hopping to the floor. I was too weak to hold her. My face was wet with tears, I couldn't stop myself. He was dead, and he wasn't coming back this time. I opened my mouth to say something, anything at all, but I just stood there gasping for a breath between my tears. I tackled him in a hug, and his package fell, meaningless, on my doorstep. I buried my face in his shoulder, and I felt his hand on my back.

"Ang, sweetie," he called me by my childhood nickname, just like Eridan used to, "He loved you two more than anything. You know he didn't mean to leave you..."

He didn't expect an answer, so I didn't supply one. I merely waited until my tears died down before pulling away to face him. After wiping my eyes, I saw that he was crying too. We stared at each other for a moment before anyone said anything. Jamie stood at my feet, void of understanding, clinging to the hem of my dress. Thank God she didn't ask me what was wrong. Everything was wrong. Karkat gripped his slipping shoulder-bag again, crouching down to retrieve the package he had dropped. I recognized the handwriting printed on it's makeshift label as Eridan's unruly scribbles.

"He left this with me, said it was for you and the kid..."

He fumbled the box for a minute, passing it carefully into my shaking outstretched arms. It was heavy, and the contents shifted as if there were multiple objects inside. He shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his army jacket as another strong gust of wind blew past.

"Thank you," I was able to speak clearly now, the tears had mostly stopped, "Thanks for everything you've done for us..."

He nodded his usual curt little nod, turning away from the door, back to the streets. The tails of his long coat swirled in the wind, revealing his right knee, tightly wound in a bandage. I hadn't even noticed. From what I could see, it was wrapped in a thin piece of fabric that was hastily dyed green, most likely to achieve a certain sense of camouflage. I suppose the war was closer than I had felt. I suppose the war could be blamed our hunger, for the injuries of our friends, for the sickness of my child. For the death of my husband.

I heaved the box inside, sliding it onto the center of the rug. Jamie, who I had

promptly forgotten about, coughed despairingly. A reminder I should close the door to prevent the wind from getting in. After doing so, I was once again faced with the package. Distracted in a fit of coughing, the weak little girl could all but watch as I pulled the end of the string that wrapped the package. The paper was old, and full of holes. There were burn marks along one of the sides. My shaking hands carefully unwrapped the surrounding layer of paper, revealing a large, rectangular tin canister, stark grey and undecorated. I pried the lid off with my fingertips, after much struggle, and a small cloud of dust greeted me upon opening. I coughed, glancing down at the several revealed objects.

The largest and most obvious item in the canister was Eridan's old handgun. People called him a showoff, a pretty boy, but with a gun he could show them who's boss. Aside from being scuffed and very, very old, it's turquoise-plated handle and sides gave in an air of having once been very valuable. I picked it up, running my hands along the stone, not nearly as smooth as when he'd owned the gun as a teenager. Back when we first met. I examined it for a date, and found the small, antique symbols with the year of origin etched beside it. As I had always assumed, the weapon was decades old, but there was still something about it that felt like I was holding his soul in my hands. I knew he'd have died sooner if he were drafted, despite his skill with firearms. He tried to stay off the Insurgent Forces as long as possible, for us. Usually married men weren't drafted, but you never know. The Insurgents had been having trouble lately.

I set the handgun down, sifting through the other few items in the tin. There was a pair of leather gloves, an empty wallet, and a few rusty bullet casings. Nothing of true value, nothing that would keep his essence intact for more than a few days. The sweet smell of his touch would fade from the tin's contents by a week or so, and I'd soon hide it away where I could be spared of the memories.

Still kneeling haphazardly on the rug, I capped the tin tightly, my hands trembling. My wedding band caught a mysterious beam of light from an unseen crack in the curtains, and gave one last brilliant twinkle before dying back to it's familiar rusty silver. I worked it off my finger, a harsh tan line greeting my eyes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken it off. I had needed it... as a reminder for myself, a reminder of the good things that were still out there somewhere. Little did I know I'd never put in on again.

My Hope was gone for good.