The balmy spring air drifted through the open windows of the London bookstore. Edith's hand was starting to cramp as she signed copy after copy of her newest release, the aches and pains just the latest manifestation of time's continuous march forward.

Once upon a time, she'd tried to return to her home in Buffalo. She'd attempted to pick up the pieces of her old life and rediscover the girl she'd used to be. She might've as well tried constructing a vase out of sand.

And so she'd packed her bags and began to travel.

France. Italy. Greece. Sweden…

Sometimes Edith intentionally planned her next destination. More often than not she'd open a map, close her eyes, and let her finger fall where it would.

Ironically enough, her doomed marriage had provided her with more freedoms than the Sharpe siblings could've ever dreamed. Once upon a time, she'd needed her father's approval and an older chaperone. Now Edith simply prefixed her signature with a 'Mrs,' and that was enough proof for society that she could manage her own affairs. A husband, even a dead one - especially a dead one, was a very powerful asset.

And Edith continued to write.

She published her first book. Then her second. Then her third. Somewhere in the following decade, she lost count. Her ideas for each overlapped so that, by the time she finished one book, she was brimming with excitement for the next.

Edith was hardly a celebrity, but she found her name spreading to certain corners. Whenever she checked into a hotel, its concierge usually passed a small stack of invitations along with her room keys.

And then there were the proposals. Most of them were literary in nature. Some were… not. Once again, her widowhood offered her a sort of shield, an excuse for polite rejection after rejection.

Not that she was trapped in the past. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Edith cherished each sunrise and the fresh breaths that came with them. If a new love happened into her life, she would greet it in very much the same way.

And over the years, she'd made the acquaintance of plenty of handsome men. Plenty of charming men. However, none of them inspired that same… spark that had been so natural and instantaneous when she'd first met Sir Thomas Sharpe. None of them caused her heart to spin nor her head to rush. None of them lingered in her thoughts, slipping their way past her lips even when she'd been trying to speak of something else.

It was a terrible misfortune that Edith had suffered all that once… and to settle for anything less would be a horrible disservice to both herself and whatever other party involved.

Besides, she had her books and her health - for the time being, which was more than most people in the world could say.

What more could she demand?

Edith shook her hand to stretch out the cramps before moving onto the next book placed before her. Its young, brown-haired owner clutched her hands close to her chest as she watched Edith's pen skate across the page. She mumbled a soft 'thank you' when Edith returned it to her and quickly stumbled off. Edith smiled and adjusted her glasses as the next woman in line placed her book on the signing table.

"Good afternoon. And who should this be dedicated to?" Edith asked cheerfully, pen at the ready.

"Tristan Stokes," the woman said.

"Hmm, is that your husband's name?"

"I'm Tristan Stokes," a small voice piped.

Edith looked up to see a boy no older than seven standing before her. His mother's hands rested on each of his shoulders as he stared at Edith with sharp blue eyes. His black hair contrasted sharply with his pale face, smooth and unblemished with the exception of a small birthmark, almost like a scar, beneath his left eye.

"Tristan's always loved your ghost stories," Mrs. Stokes said.

"They're not ghost stories, mother!" the boy protested. He crossed his arms. "They just happen to be stories with ghosts in them."

Edith lowered her head, her lips quirking upwards as she started to write the boy's name in narrow, swooping letters.

An odd feeling stirred its way through her chest, a feeling that she wasn't feeling enough. Logically, the boy was just that. A boy. There were millions of boys in England with black hair and blue eyes. Of those there were probably thousands with similar birthmarks.

Hundreds perhaps.

If the universe wanted her to know something, it would tell her.

"You seem quite the literary analyst." Are you an aspiring writing yourself?" Edith asked, keeping her eyes on the mostly blank page. Her pen hovered as she considered what to write for a personalized message.

"No. I love books, but I could never write one," the boy said matter-of-factly. "I'm going to be an inventor."

"An inventor!" Edith said with just of tinge of calculated awe. "Now isn't that an commendable profession. You must be very smart indeed."

"Too smart if you ask me," Mrs. Stokes said as her son beamed with pride. "You should see the state of our house. Bits of wire and metal scraps scattered all about the place. A miracle none of us have landed in the hospital, tripping over the mess."

"Sounds like quite the inventor to me."

Inspiration struck and Edith quickly scrawled out a short message.

"Your birthmark is the same as mine," the boy said.

Edith paused. Her hand unconsciously moved to touch the mark left by Lucille's knife. It'd been nearly two decades and it still hadn't faded.

"It's… not a birthmark," she finally said. "It's a scar."

"A scar?" the boy asked. His eyes widened. "You mean that someone… Who would do such a thing?!"

"Tristan," Mrs. Stokes said tersely. "What I have I told you about asking invasive personal questions?"

The boy slouched, head ducking as he sunk into himself.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No apologies are necessary. Really," Edith said, as Mrs. Stokes started to push her son to apologize further. "It happened a long time ago."

Edith signed her name with a dramatic flourish, blew on the ink slightly, and handed it over to the delighted boy. He instantly snapped the cover back open. As he scanned the words she'd written just for him, his nose wrinkled slightly.

"You forgot one of your names," he said.

"Tristan!"

"Oh, I did?"

"Right here," the boy said, holding the page open for Edith to see. "You wrote 'Edith Sharpe', not 'Edith Cushing-Sharpe.'"

Edith narrowed her eyes behind her spectacles, pretending to examine her signature in depth.

"It seems I did," she said. She leaned back and gestured to stack of books beside her. "I can sign an extra one if you like."

The boy looked at the page again. His small forehead crinkled in thought.

"No," he finally said. "I like it like this."

He turned to go, his eyes glued to the book, but his mother snatched him by the shoulders and dragged him back.

"Thank Mrs. Cushing-Sharpe for her time," she said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Sharpe," the boy said.

He held out his hand for Edith to shake.

Edith didn't know what she'd been expecting. An electric shock, perhaps. Or maybe a frozen sensation, signaling time once spent in death. Or perhaps the opposite. Perhaps a rush of warmth of a bond with the power to transcend lifetimes. Anything but a normal handshake really.

But that's what it was.

The boy's skin was slightly dry, and she could feel a couple callouses from where he'd obviously been welding machine parts together, but that was all.

Their handshake lasted a brief couple sounds, and then his mother was steering him off towards the exit. Edith watched the two of them leave, mildly transfixed, her thoughts finally broken by a cough from the next guest in line.

She took a deep breath, plunged herself back into the present, and continued on.

Tristan Stokes,

The past merely marks the starting point for the rest of the journey. We find our next footsteps by looking ahead.

Edith Sharpe