He doesn't have much - just his typewriter, and the memories that keep him up at night. Memories of a cramped wardrobe, and the dull, golden lights of a diner far, far away. The island is enough for now. Beautiful Phuket with its white beaches, water so blue you can't tell where the sky begins at the horizon, and woman upon woman to tell him how madly in love she is with his words.

But there's still a lingering emptiness inside of him, like a gaping, hollow hole in his chest, and he's spent almost thirty years trying to fill it with whatever pleasures he could get his hands on. The reminder is etched into his real, human skin, the regret seeping into him, suffocating him, and sometimes he forgets how to breath.

He's writing, his real, calloused fingers clacking away at his typewriter, when a white hot pain shoots up his leg, stunning him for a moment. August falls out of his chair, grabbing at his calf, teeth gritted and eyes shut tight. He's never felt this sort of pain before, and it's awful. So awful. It's worse than the anxiety, the depression, the dreams.

After throwing up the contents of his dinner in the wastebasket near his desk, he rolls up the pant leg of his jeans to see just what the hell was happening to him. The blood drains out of his face leaving him pale and white as a sheet of paper. His fingers tremble as they brush against the human skin that doesn't look so human anymore.

And he knows.

He knows all of his ghosts are finally catching up to him.

August can tell she's the Savior from the moment he lays eyes on her. Savior with a goddamned capital S. It's almost funny to see how grown up she is. An actual living breathing woman with soft curves and hands, but a sharp, skeptical look in her eyes that warns him to keep away. But he can't help himself. August has always found it difficult to resist temptation.

So he trails behind her like a dog, a loyal leather clad dog, and he tries to keep one eye on her at all times (which isn't too hard, he later realizes, when the thing you're trying to watch is so enjoyable to look at). Emma is stubborn and passionate and full of life, something he's been lacking lately.

And pretty soon he's not watching her as a job, as something he has to do. He's watching her to gauge reactions, read her expression, search for the slightest bit of warmth toward him. She smiles when he makes a quip, sighs when he says something that annoys her, narrows her eyes in this frustratingly sexy way, and August is starting to have a real problem.

He's dying, a walking time bomb, but what hurts more is the regret. He wasn't there to help little Emma like his father had made him promise to do. Instead he ran without thinking. He left her, and his mistakes pain him more than the aching in his leg.

It's him making up for the years he hadn't been there, though she isn't aware of it. She probably finds him a nuisance with his box and his stories, but it's better than nothing. It's better than not being around at all.

"What sort of things have you written?" Emma asks him one night at the sheriff's office. She hands him a cup of black coffee ("a writer's blood if made of coffee," he told her once, and she laughed, but August didn't tell her that his blood was made of magic) and waits patiently for his answer.

"Fairy tales," he says with a wry smile he hopes is charming.

Emma stares at him pointedly. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"No, I'm very serious. 100%."

She leans in closer to him, so close he can smell the vanilla in her hair, and it makes his stomach lurch. She's using her super power on him.

"So are you famous or something?" She sits back in her chair once she's done giving him a good once over, finding him to be truthful.

"Maybe somewhere. I have no idea."

"You should try writing some romances. I'm sure you'd be good at those." There's a smile playing at her lips, but she refuses to let it shine through. She's making fun of him, poking his buttons.

"I don't think mine would have any happy endings."

"Not all of them do."

There's a sadness in her eyes, though the smile's still there, and he has to stop himself from doing something stupid. So instead he smiles back, crooked and easy, keeping his distance.

August thinks he might be a little bit in love with her - just a little bit - though love might be too broad a word. He wants to take care of her, protect her, stay by her side. He wants to touch her with human hands he doesn't have.

Emma is filling the hole in him, slowly, but she gives him a purpose. She makes him want to be brave, truthful, and unselfish - for her sake.

But it's too late. He's dying. He's sick and dying and she won't believe. If she won't believe they're all fucked, and it isn't fair. It really isn't fair that she's the person responsible for all of them. They all need her, but she could just leave. It'd be easy. But he doesn't think she will. She's too good, too brilliant, and she won't leave them behind.

One morning he wakes up and his legs and arms are wood. No skin, no blood, no veins, but he can feel the hurt, the ache in his real heart for her. For Emma. For his father. For everyone.

He doesn't know if Heaven exists, or if there is a God, but he hopes the other side looks something like his father's workshop.

Emma's there, her face a bit blurry, but she's there, sitting beside him, touching his hand. But he can't feel it. Even now he can't touch her.

She asks what happened, what's going on? And he realizes she believes. She believes in the curse, in magic, in him. She grips his hand harder, so hard her knuckles turn white, but he can't fucking feel it, and it hurts so much, but at least she's here, at least she knows.

And he's glad.

He's glad hers is the last face he sees before time closes in on him.