From the archives: Yes, I located my stash of Roswell fanfic while I was at my parents' home over the holidays this year. Aside from a few spelling corrections, I'm publishing them without major editing. Yes, I was a much different writer when I initially wrote and published these (15+ years ago, which is mind-boggling to me). Please be kind to the version of me that wrote these.

Disclaimer: Didn't own it then. Don't own it now. Roswell and its characters (still, I assume) belong to Warner Brothers.

So many times, I have walked this path late at night, but somehow, in some way, it seems different tonight.

Maybe it's because I know that I can stay this time; I don't have to run after a few hours of time with those that I love.

So many nights, I've watched through the window of this house that I've rarely ventured into since I left.

So many nights that I've watched through this window at the lives that I left behind.

I watched my baby girl grow up from a crawling one-year-old being swung around by her mother into the beautiful young woman that I see now. The young woman who is preparing herself for an evening's festivities with both her date and her friends.

On so many occasions, I've seen them dancing together in the living room. Both would be laughing and their blonde curls would be bouncing. Then, I would know that my wife sensed my presence as I'd see her eyes light up at the knowledge.

My wife. How strange it still is to say those words.

It was only our second year of marriage when I was called away to my duties. Our little girl had just begun to walk and say her first words. The first was, of course "dadda".

I remember the day that I left. The look in my daughter's eyes haunted me for years, and her wailing cries as I took my leave resounded in my ears over and over again.

She always had her mother's good looks. The exception, however, was her eyes. That night I realized she had my eyes as it seemed I was looking into a mirror: into the same dark and stormy eyes that I must have had when I climbed in through her mother's window for the first time so many years ago.

As the young man arrives to pick up my daughter, I feel jealous towards him. He knows more about my daughter than I do. Yet, at the same time, I'm thankful that he has given her a shoulder to lean on when I'm not around and she experiences rough times.

Fifteen years have come and gone since I left this place that I still call home. Fifteen years of lost time.

And now, after fifteen years, the dangers have passed, and I'm free to return home: home to my wife and child whom I long to know again.

Some nights, I'd sneak in through their windows and rock the baby to sleep or plant a gentle kiss on my wife's cheek. But then I'd have to vanish, so that I would not endanger their lives by having the enemy find me here.

And although I knew the danger was real, that I had to leave, I still wished I could stay.

Now, I hide in the shadows under the window and I wait as my daughter leaves with a young man, and once I know they are gone, I creep into the house through my baby's window. I walk through the house as if in a dream. Our bedroom to the left, the kitchen to the right. The full realization of how much time has passed hits me as I gaze at the pictures on the walls that I never had time to look at before.

My girls reading in the park. My girls at the zoo. My baby and her date at the school dance. All of them stop me in my tracks and make me wish I could gain back the lost time.

But one puts my mind at ease. It was an older picture of all of us on our baby's first birthday. We were all laughing at the chocolate cake smeared on her face. None of us knew what would happen within the next month; none of us wanted to think about the possibilities.

I sense my wife's presence and I turn around to find her watching me from the distance. She knows I am home for good this time, that the danger has passed. And as the realization hits her, tears of joy begin to stream down her beautiful face. She didn't even have to ask; she just knew. It's always been like that.

And then the door opens, and I find myself face-to-face with the love of my youth.

A quiet "Daddy?" escapes her lips as I nod my head in assurance. Her feet slowly rush forward to place her slender arms around my waist. In her embrace, I feel the forgiveness for my absence, and in her tears I see her joy for my return.

And yet I wonder if my wife's father would have received the same welcome if he had returned when she was still a child.

My wife joins our hug as a sign of reunion, and I realize that all three sets of eyes have cascading tears: even mine.

I quietly tell my daughter that her date is waiting, and she retrieves her purse before exiting the house once more, this time knowing that I'm here to stay.

My wife then speaks those three words I have desired to hear spoken for the past fifteen years,

"I love you."

And now the tears fall freely for no matter much things change or how much time is lost, some things will always stay the same.

My Ivy.

My Maria.