Chippewa Falls, WI - February 1922

Hat in hand and duffle bag by his side, Jack Dawson never thought he would see this town again, but here he was stepping off of the two o'clock train, back into the center of the town that had shaped his young life. Looking up the street, it hadn't changed much. There were more cars and less carriages now, and a clock tower had been added to the small town hall building in the center, but other than that much of the main street of Chippewa Falls Wisconsin was just as he had left it at fifteen years old. He wondered how many of the people were as he left them. He himself had certainly been altered: by time, by tragedy, by love, by war. He reckoned that even if the others hadn't moved from the town that they were probably much changed as well. Time had a way of doing that.

He had meant to come back earlier, truly. Only, two years had gone by while he had looked for his Rose and worked the odd job to keep food in his stomach, traveling from New York to Philadelphia to Santa Monica, and then the war had started. He still hadn't found her at that point, and had given up hope, deciding it would be better to enlist in the services early rather than wait around and get the worst of the assignments; not that it had mattered. He had taken two bullets to the leg anyway, and while he was still kicking, and still walking, he would never get around quite as quickly. He hadn't reached American soil again until late in 1919, and now that he was recovered enough to walk on his own and after spending over a year in Fabrizio's crowded Brooklyn flat with his friend's ever growing family, he still had the majority of his military stipend, and figured he had nothing to lose in returning, and maybe even still a house to gain. He was not longer quite up to sleeping out in the cold under bridges with the dull ache of shrapnel still in his leg, and he could no longer do such physical work to get from place to place. Plus he figures that it's been long enough now. It's 1922. He wants to see their graves… his parents; his sister. And even if the old house had been let to someone else now, he'd like to look at it again.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he begins the short trek through town towards where he remembers a small Inn. After a long train journey it would be best to get some rest and regain his bearings before checking on anyone he left behind. He doesn't notice as he's walking, the odd looks that he's getting on the way. He just nods them off. Surely, no one recognizes him after fifteen years. The odd glances must be about his limp or his military issue jacket, marking him as a vet. Finding the old Inn quickly enough, he enters the main parlor room, clearing his throat to get the attention of the young brunette woman sat reading behind the desk.

"Have you got any vacancies?" he asks when she finally looks up, surprised at his sudden appearance. He assumes that they do. It's not exactly a large town, or a big tourist destination, even if it is the only layover on the way to Eau Claire and Milwaukee.

"Oh, of course!" the girl exclaims. She's scrambling to bring forward a leather folio book that looks like a remnant of the late 1800's, while looking up at him, taking in his appearance.

He steps forward, conscious of his limp now that he's being watched, and tries to make walking appear effortless. He nods towards the book. "How - uh, how much is the stay per night?"

"A dollar per night," she says, not meeting his eye now. "Although if you've served in the war, I'm sure mother could cut you a discount. She's partial to army men."

Jack frowns, shaking his head. He doesn't want charity. "That's quite alright. If the rate is a dollar per night then that's what I'll pay. Mark me down for a week for now, and I'll let you know if I'll be staying any longer," he says, hoping that by then he'll have more of a plan together and more of an idea about the house, and he hands over seven dollar bills. The house had been left to him in his father's will, but he's not sure if it'll still be honored this far down the road, or if the house is even standing. He may be looking for a room in a boarding house between here and Eau Claire, permitting he found a job.

The girl nods, blushing a bit, and Jack hopes he hasn't insulted her by rejecting her kindness. When she asks for his name he gives it, not catching her sudden glance back up. The moment passes, and he's handed a key.

The room itself is a small one, but it has its own bathroom, and a double bed, something he doesn't think he's ever had to himself, having gone from his small childhood bedroom, to trains, to tenements, to camping out on park benches and in shared quarters and garrets, to military bunks, and honestly after twenty-seven hours on a moving train he cannot think of anything better than a hot bath and a long lie in.

— — — —

Rose is exhausted, and her head is aching just as much as her feet. Its not long past two in the afternoon on a Friday, but the lunch crowd has died early, and thankfully she is able to slip outside for a cigarette before returning to clean her tables. She is thankful that the manager of this diner is so patient with her, even counting her as a friend. When she showed up here she was five months pregnant, and hadn't had a day's experience, unless you count New York, and that had been a near disaster to say the least. She counted herself lucky to be allowed this job, or she didn't know what she would do when it came to raising Josephine. Sure there had been the money in the coat, but she had only ever touched that in emergencies and had been careful to replace what she used from the pile. Using any of that money felt like taking a bribe or charity from Cal, not to mention a disservice to the promise she had made to Jack. In fact, she felt that she had Jack to thank for this job. It was only after she mentioned his name that the late Mr. Richardson had agreed to take her on.

Still, there were times when her feet were so swollen in her shoes and she was so tired that she couldn't see straight when she wondered how bad it would be to use some of that money for real and take a break. Now was one of those times. As she leaned against the outside of the building and took a deep drag form her cigarette, she could have sworn that she had seen Jack pass by on the other side of the street. She blinks, looking again. There's a man across the way in a green military jacket and black combat boots who has the blonde hair to match Jack's, and a similar height, but as she watches him she realize that this man walks with a limp. Plus, she reminds herself for the millionth time, Jack is dead. She had seen him go under the water. Reluctantly, she stubs out her cigarette with the heel of her shoe and goes back inside. The sooner she gets her section cleaned the sooner she can make her way to the school house to collect Josephine, and return home for some dinner and some aspirin for her aching head.

Home, as it turns out, is what had once been the Dawson household. She supposes that it still is, in a way. After all, she has taken his name, even if it had never been official, and most of the people in the town had never asked her if it was. They had just assumed, when she turned up asking about Jack Dawson's past and family and if there was anything left now, that she must have been his wife. She had been with child, and especially after Josephine had been born, everyone had seen the resemblance. they commented all the time about how much her child looked like Jack, especially now that she was nearing ten years old. It had always been a great comfort for Rose; a part of him was still with her - her little blessing.

Her little blessing, however, is currently scowling into her soup and playing with her spoon while her strawberry blonde hair is coming undone from her little bun. Rose for a moment is tempted to correct the girl's manners, and wonders what her mother would think if she could see her grand daughter right now. Instead, she reaches forward to tuck some of the stray hair behind her daughter's ear, and asks what has her so down.

"Beatrice called me it again," Josephine answers, setting her spoon down angrily.

"What did she call you, my dear?" Rose asks, concerned. Josephine had been dealing with bullies at school more and more often as of late.

"I can't say the word, mama. It's a bad word."

Rose frowns. "Well, do you know what the word means? Can you tell me that?"

The little girl nods, and tears begin to form in her blue eyes, making Rose's frown deepen as she scoots closer. "It- it means I don't have a father. It means you had me with out being married, and I don't have a father, and she's right!"

She's fully crying now, and Rose is out of her own seat, pulling her daughter to her chest. "Oh my dear. It's just a word. Words can't hurt you. Sticks and stones, remember?" She strokes Josephine's hair waiting for her to calm down, before pulling her chin up to meet her eye. "My darling, you know the story of your father. You know how much I loved him, and I have no doubt he loved me and he would love you too. He would adore you. If he were here we would all be a family, and so there is no need to worry about that silly word, or anything that this Beatrice has to say. I am sure that wherever your father is now, he loves you very much, and if you ever want to see him you can just look at all of the pictures on these walls."

Once her daughter is calmed down, and has had her dinner and bath, and is all tucked in for the night, Rose finds herself once again looking at the pictures herself. When she had accepted the offer from Mr. Murphy, who manages the town's affairs, and had agreed to move into Jack's old family home she hadn't expected to find it as it had been left nearly six years before. Most of all she hadn't expected the photographs, and she had been moved to tears to discover the drawings, carefully framed and hung from the walls. Jack's family had definitely encouraged his talent from a young age. What she loved best however was a large drawing of his whole family including himself which hung above the mantelpiece. His mother had been beautiful, and his father very handsome. She could see where he had gotten his looks. And she had been very surprised to find out that he had a sister; by the looks of it, a twin. Looking at at the image of Jack, the drawing must have been made shortly before his family perished and he left home. He was a teenager in the image, younger looking than she remembered, and more gangly and awkward, but his eyes were the same, as was his smile, and both were a comfort to gaze upon. She had no idea that soon she would be gazing upon the real thing for the first time in ten long years.