Author's Note: When I wrote Phantasm, I had an endless internal debate as to how I wanted it to end. While I'm extremely happy with how the story played out, I haven't stopped wondering what would have happened if Anna had made a different choice. This can be taken as a sort of alternate ending, however it could not be one to switch out the original ending for reasons that you'll see as you read on, the biggest being the fact that it negates one of the biggest blows of the story. Those of you who think the story is perfect the way it is, I encourage you to skip this. Those in need of a bittersweet cry or an ending that's less hopeless (and let's be honest, Phantasm had a bleak ending), read on. It made me sob while I wrote it almost as much as the actual ending did.

The years passed, and there was pain.

My tears came often and my nightmares were many, but with time even the deepest wounds began to heal. Still, I found myself hesitant on leaving the hospital, even while my progress began to make it clear that I was soon to be ready. In the quiet of the night I thought of what I would do with myself. I thought of where I would go, what sort of life I would live.

I thought of Asgard, though only in brief increments as the temptation to retreat was still there. I thought of Loki, the one painful voice of reality that was the most brutal form of saving grace that I could think of.

But most of all, I thought about Emma. And I missed her.

During my final sessions while committed, I fought to remind myself why I had to keep living. I had spent too much of my life cowering and hiding, and in the end Emma had paid the price for my bad decisions. All I knew of the life that awaited me outside the hospital walls was that my husband would no longer be a part of it. The divorce was finalized and the restraining order was in place. But above that, once word of my failed escape attempt broke the news, my husband's face became recognized everywhere. He couldn't so much as pick his nose without someone recognizing him let alone be stupid enough to come anywhere near me undetected.

I found it odd that he became the villain and I the victim. I found it odd because in spite of everything I could not stop blaming myself.

The day finally came. I shook hands with the doctor of the last time, was given the information of the new therapist I would be seeing on the outside, and my mother was there, ready to take me home. Stepping into her house was the first bit of comfort I'd felt in a very long time, and as we sat down for a cup of coffee and small talk, I found myself feeling more and more like I was ready to settle in for a normal life.

"When you're ready," she said before I headed up the stairs to go to bed. "…I managed to collect some things from your house. I have them boxed up in the attic above your room." I could tell by the way she hesitated that some of Emma's things must have been in those boxes. "When you feel you're ready, they're there for you to go through."

My heart sank and I felt a chill run down my spine. Nodding and swallowing over a lump I muttered, "Okay."

I did not go near the attic that night. Nor the night after that.

Weeks went by and I tried to put the thought out of my head. I filled my time with searching for a job, attending therapy sessions, and apartment hunting. I filled my time with chores around the house and helping my mother with anything she needed.

It was nearly two months before I had to venture up to the attic. And when the time came I feel like I stared at the small fold-out door for hours before I finally had the courage to pull the string and climb the ladder.

The musty smell filled my nose, and the old wooden beams were covered in dirt and grit, but sitting right over where my bed was were a pile of boxes, and I knew it had to be them. My heart ached with every step as I drew closer, and sitting down, I opened the flaps of the first box and looked inside.

A tiny pink knitted cap sat at the top, and my eyes were blinded by tears. I remembered holding her small body in my arms in the hospital the first time she wore it, wrapped in swaddling blankets as her face scrunched in the light. Beneath the hat lay more of her clothing, each outfit bringing back a different memory, and as I searched through them all my sorrow blurred with bittersweet memories.

I knew I was openly sobbing, but I made not effort to control it. I needed the grief, and I needed the tears.

Box after box passed before my eyes, and I delved deeper into memory after memory, smiling, laughing, but mostly crying. When I came upon the last box, I opened it to find there were not clothes in it, but folders filled with paperwork.

I opened them to find Emma's birth certificate, her hospital paperwork, and other important documents pertaining to her. I flipped through them all, scanning them briefly until I reached the bottom and came across a paper with handwriting on it.

I paused, pulling it up to realize it was a letter. I did not recognize the handwriting, nor did I have any idea as to what it may be, so I sat back and read it in the dim lighting.

Dear Anna,

I cannot say I envy the choice you were forced to make, but I can say that I have nothing but admiration for your courage and determination to return to your life. I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it must be to pick up the pieces and continue. Not many would even try.

There must be many fears and doubts in your mind at this point. You're probably wondering if the pain will ever heal. You're probably wondering if you'll ever have the strength to forgive yourself. I also imagine you think of your daughter often with regret and mourning.

While I cannot tell you what will become of your life, I can at least try to ease your pain a little with the truth. And the truth is your daughter grows every day.

She smiles, she laughs, and she has a brilliant mind. Her imagination runs as wild as her mother's and she always asks questions and explores the afterlife with curiosity and endless wonder. She asks for stories of faraway lands, she asks questions of the greater mysteries of life.

But most of all she asks of you.

I tell her of your bravery. I tell her of your deep love for her. I tell her of how you risked everything to protect her.

She holds nothing against you, Anna. She does not blame you for anything. The only thing she wishes for is to hear that you continue to get better and that you find happier paths in life.

A day will come when you will see each other again. A day will come when you will hold your daughter in your arms again, and you will be able to tell her everything you wish you could right now. But until that day comes, know that she waits for you.

And know that until that day comes, I am watching over her.

You're daughter is truly beautiful, Anna. You've a lot to be proud of in her. I hope you know that. And I hope you continue to fight with the strength you've shown over the years.

May you take these words to heart until the day comes when your time on Midgard ends and our paths cross again.

All my love,
Loki