A/N: Grieving is a part of our life journey. It's always easier to walk through it when holding someone's hand.

P.S. I do not own any of these characters, excepting that sweetheart of an OC.

Enjoy.

"Was there anybody?"

Three words; one hundred meanings. But only two I was able to translate.

The first was a question that alluded to the possibility of prior loneliness; not so much of physical isolation, but the internal grief everybody was blind to.

The second, and last, interpretation was a query in relation to a figure; a present figure who had supposedly transformed somebody's life, or brought out the best of their character. A figure who was no longer there.

Somehow, I knew immediately which translation he was referring to.

I was fiddling with my brick red laces nervously, biting my lip from hastily denying the existence of the 'anybody' from his question.

"Red?" Xander pressed. His eyes did not stray even once to catch a glimpse of the uneaten delicacies on the picnic rug; he kept his gaze on me, as if completely prepared to listen to my every word.

"I. . .," I started. Why I was not able to share him with Xander was beyond my comprehension. All I knew was that he was gone. His leaving created shared sorrow among us, and his absence punctured a hole in my heart. Sharing him may be an honour for Xander, but an expense for me. I decided to take the risk. "I do have somebody."

Xander, being territorial yet sweet, arched an eyebrow. "An ex?"

I chuckled at his quick assumptions. "No, nothing like that." I picked at the grass beneath me, my auburn hair flying across my face like the cool breeze. "My father."

Silence dawned over us.

There were two things I had learned myself about Xander from the past five months I had known him.

1 . He's a total rebel who can only be tamed by certain people (it was flattering to be one of them).

2 . He chooses his words carefully.

So, there I was, awaiting his response to my personal confession — a hidden figure.

After what felt like hours, he spoke with a gentle voice. "When?"

"Three years ago. I was nineteen," I answered, relieved to hear a question that required facts, rather than feelings. Not that I was a heartless woman; definitely not. But, my heart had been numbed from brokenness, similar to the feeling of pins and needles in your leg, and one touch— one heavy, thought-filled question —could spark a sudden reaction, with layers of emotions.

"That must be hard," he said, his blue eyes warming my core.

"Living in my apartment alone is hard," I blurted without considering how pitiful I would sound. I swiftly looked down at my lap, my cheeks slightly heating up with shame.

But Xander didn't roll his eyes, or brush my comment off with disinterest, or order me to 'get over it'. Instead, he reached over and took my hand in his. This was when I realised how small my hand looked against his; familiarity twisted my stomach, but I found myself holding his hand tighter.

"Tell me about it," he whispered.

I looked up at him, meeting his eyes that were earnestly staring at me. "I have pictures. Of him, my father." I thought some more. "And videos. . . But they just hurt me even more."

Xander was careful to keep his voice low. "I've never seen them before."

I shook my head. "I hide them. In a box. The only time I open it up is on his death anniversary." I lift my head, smiling softly. "It's funny how, even in those moments when you don't talk at all, it's so much better to have them twenty metres away than to see them talk to you on videos that are playing right in front of your face."

There was more silence. I wasn't quite sure if the young man next to me was expecting me to fill in the silence with more heartfelt stories, but I knew I just couldn't. I couldn't continue.

So, instead, I put on a smile.

I could tell that he saw right through me. Just like he could.

He didn't say a word; I didn't expect him to. Every second of silence that passed us during that moment gave me more assurance that he was cautious with his tongue, that he was afraid to hurt me — to lose me.

My breath hitched for a split second and a continuous streak of images flashed across my mind, like a running film strip. The scenes played, haunting me; an indefinite pathway, a small brick cottage, a warm smile kissing my forehead, wrinkly hands knitted with my childhood ones as we padded across the grass together. . . Then those eyes— those terrified eyes that conveyed sorrow and— dare I say it? —loss. A wolf, a kazoo, a spirit, a man — that man. . .

A tear threatened to fall, but my will to stay strong fought back and won. "Loss" was a word tossed around here and there at times, but suddenly it was such a common subject; for my grandmother had the fear of it, but I had experienced it. Twice. My grandmother and he had gone.

And it only felt like it had happened yesterday.

"I can't let go," I breathed out. I chose to admit it. Because I had ignored it for three years. Because, finally, I was done lying. Because, for once, I had found somebody, who didn't give me the generic reply of "I'm sorry" when told about him, who let me stay in comfortable silence as I sprinted down my memory lane, who wasn't miles and miles away — for university and other reasons had split me up from my close relations.

Because, at last, I wasn't alone.

When evening dawned, Xander took me by the hand and led me in a waltz.

"It seems appropriate, doesn't it?" he told me when I asked him why we were doing it. "Considering this is our first."

I only smiled and allowed him to take me through a few minutes of slow, gentle dancing. I stared up into his eyes and felt his warmth cascade out of him and around me. Our timing was synchronised and the way we moved was natural, as if we didn't have a care in the world.

Then amidst all the peace, amidst all the beauty, a dreamt transformation happened right before my eyes. The strong hands that held me turned into a pair of wrinkles and care. The perfectly tousled hair receded slightly, though still quite wild, and paled in colour to the shade of seniority. The two light blue eyes dimmed into grey and the creases at the corners appeared as he smiled. His skinny form was present, just like three years ago, when we had danced our last duet together under the moonlight.

"Father," I murmured under my breath.

Xander must have heard me because he said, "You know that it's okay to ask for help, right?"

And I was snapped back into reality.

"What do you mean?" I questioned, swallowing my heart back into place.

His eyes were soft. "Every time I see you, you're either studying or assisting somebody. As if it's your duty to serve everybody who so much as looks at you with a desperate "help me" expression. Don't get me wrong— it's great. But, maybe it's time for you to be those people, and me to be you."

I stared up at him, lost for words. I had never expected him to suddenly become a wise owl who would give me lectures, but it was then that I discovered that side of him.

When I didn't answer, he continued. "You can't constantly fill people's cups if you're going to end up empty."

He was right. After knowing about the former insanity in me that had led to so much destruction, I had never thought I was enough. So I had always searched for new ways to make up for all my flaws, all my mistakes. And those strategies of amendment had either been obtaining high achievements and pride for my current Granny Relda, or saying "yes" to every request for a favour. It had always been "others", until my smile had become a mask, my heart a broken instrument.

But, then there I was, waltzing with the man I fell for, who suddenly made me see the difference between being selfish and helping myself.

So I said. "Do you have any advice?"

He grinned at me proudly, as if I was his child who just stood up to the bullies. Then his smile relaxed into a neutral expression.

"It'll take time."

I gulped, never taking my eyes off of him. "I've already taken three years."

He pulled me closer to him as he manoeuvred around the lamp posts. "You only begin to count those years when you're willing to begin."

I paused.

Then. . .

"Alright." And I meant it. The word carried so much meaning. It was the start of a new life; I was going to let go of the pile of emotions that I had built up every second in a cage that was my heart.

Xander halted, his feet coming to a smooth stop. He sucked in a breath, slightly nervous.

"Well." He coughed to clear his throat. His eyes strayed a little. "I'm not exactly known for my wisdom—"

I chuckled softly, looking up at him shyly. "You just gave me an analogically perfect piece of advice, Xander. You know. . ."— I fumbled for words —". . . about the, um, water filling up. . . er. . . cup. Thing."

I retained myself from fanning my face, even knowing that it must be as red as a tomato.

Xander laughed. Of course he did.

"I think I'm much better at giving you compliments," he said, amused.

Then his face straightened. His hands left my waist and curled up around my own pair of hands. His voice lowered down to a hushed whisper. "What exactly do you want?"

I furrowed my eyebrows and blinked several times, containing any waterworks. "I don't want to forget him." I hesitated before continuing. "But I want to be happy."

Xander nodded slowly, as if every sentence coming out of my mouth was being translated properly into his brain. I believed him.

"It's possible to be happy and sad at the same time." Xander raised his eyes to the sky, as if contemplating. "Just remember that everything in this world is temporary. Nothing lasts forever. We'll all die one day, and deaths may come as a surprise."

I held his gaze, jaw tight and eyes unblinking. My heart raced and I desperately hoped my knees weren't wobbling noticeably. Apart from outcomes of wars, death wasn't a normal occurrence amongst my kind. If only I knew how to tell him. . .

"And," he continued, his voice soothing me, "grieving is okay. But, there must be a point where you stop. . . and move on. Not that the grieving will stop. But, trust me, it's definitely not fun when you're continuously mourning. Especially when it's preventing you from taking any future opportunities. Sure, you may come back to it, but the best thing you can do is try. Try to think of the positives— not the, um, positives of his death. No. . . don't do that." For a quick moment, he looked down, confidence suddenly gone, probably from the unknown feeling of, not giving good advice, but knowing that he was giving good advice.

I squeezed his hand, trying to convey my gratitude.

His eyes snapped back to mine and, with a gentle yet solemn face, he said, "Remember his life, and accept his passing."

But it was his next words that zapped my heart awake.

He smiled sorrowfully. "And it's always better to take that journey with others. Did you?"

I thought of my family. In New York. In Ferryport Landing. I thought of Granny Relda's cooking, filled with love, even when hardly edible. I thought of the girls, now women, who had, years ago, accepted me as their friend and sister. I thought of Elvis; his slobbery kisses he would give every now and then, and his gassy smells he would let out after eating store-bought sausages. I thought of Puck, now King of Faerie, who had never failed to entertain me or make me laugh, whether it had been intentional or not. I thought of Basil, my red-haired baby brother, who had never hesitated to embrace me, who had always given me a hand, who had stayed with me every step of the way until his death. And it was entirely my fault for leaving all those things behind. For billions of seconds, I had missed my childhood family and home, but it was only at that time— while Xander said "did you?" —did I realise it. Because, at that moment, I could taste the old woman's blue pancakes and rock-hard bacon. I could smell the unpleasant, yet familiar, scent of Elvis' farts Puck had promised to collect in mason jars. I could feel Daphne's fingertips stroking my hair, as well as mine on Sabrina's, as we braided each other's hair. I could hear Basil's chirpy voice, uncracked, while we had video-called each other every night I was in a different city to his. All of their love combined might as well have been the answer to the question "how long is a piece of string?". And I had abandoned it all, along with my childhood and freedom.

I nearly broke down, realising that I was the one who had locked myself in a prison that caved me from every beautiful thing out there.

And, this beautiful boy standing in front of me had made me come to my senses.

Xander breathed through his nose. "Call them."

"Who?" I jerked, a little stunned. I've never told him about them, have I?

He smiled comfortingly and led me towards the bench. If I wasn't in such a despondent mood, I would've chuckled, unbelieving that he had managed to hold back his trademark smirks.

"I've seen photographs in your apartment. I just assumed they were your family." He casted his eyes up to the slowly dimming sky. "You never talk about them, though. And I've never seen you leave this city in months, while your other friends are always eager to visit family."

For a short moment, I was taken aback by how observant he seemed. And everything that had come from his lips that day had somehow painted a picture, displaying that from the very beginning he had known about the despair inside of me.

"I do have family," I said at last. "I miss them."

Xander nodded, understanding. "Call them."

I nodded back. "Do you think they'll still want to talk to me?"

Without hesitation, he replied, "If they're your real family, they will."

I deeply inhaled the almost-night air and let out the breath, finally feeling relaxed. I leaned back and lifted my head to meet with the magnificent sight above me. The stars shone with beautiful brightness and I couldn't help but compare it to the way his eyes had twinkled when he had smiled at me.

It just puts these stars to shame, I thought.

And I smiled. An honest, content smile.

"There's what I have been waiting for."

I turned to Xander and found him grinning widely at me with happiness written all over his own face.

It probably mirrors mine.

It was a week later when I found myself standing beside my table, hand hovering over the landline phone, mind whizzing with every possible outcome of the call.

Would she hang up? Yell at me? Accuse me of worrying her? Or worse— would she not care in the slightest?

I grabbed the phone and dialled Granny Relda's number before I could feel my stomach roil.

Seconds passed and all I heard was the ringing of the phone. It was a nightmare, waiting and waiting for somebody to pick up. But I sat there, fists clenched with terror, heart beating faster than a cheetah sprinting across the grass. Until. . .

"Hello. The person you have called is not available. Please leave a message after the beep."

My beat slowed down, both with relief and disheartenment. I was like a statue, sitting ever so still with my hand still holding the phone against my ear.

I was attempting to convince myself that everybody was probably out, grocery shopping or visiting a friend's house. Just as I was about to drop the phone, an elegant voice flowed out.

"Hello?"

Suddenly, my arms shook violently and my lips trembled. Before, I had told myself that I would be composed during the conversation. But just the sound of her voice, the voice of the woman who had the courage and care to bring me in, was enough to break me down.

"Granny," I managed to say through the uncontrollable tears. "Gra. . . granny."

There was silence on the other end. But it was deafening.

"Oh, liebling" was the next thing I heard. "Red, my dear Red."

I cried even harder— and wailed —when I realised she was crying as well.

It was rather difficult for us to begin the exchange, but we eventually found ourselves in the midst of a lengthy talk, one that didn't include or require any blames and anger, but metaphorical kisses and hugs. So many times she had asked me if she could see me again, or if she could come over, and every time I had answered with the loudest, most urgent "yes".

The doorbell to my apartment rang during the call, and I was so tempted to ignore it. But, what prompted me to end the tear-filled interaction was the fact that I would see her again. That I wouldn't be alone anymore. That my smile wouldn't be a mask anymore.

And as I padded towards the door and opened it, my present smile became brighter.

But Xander's face fell. "Are you alright?"

I laughed at his expression, my face still wet from tears, cheeks still burning crimson. "Yes! Yes! I'm better than alright, actually."

His smile appeared and he chuckled. "What's gotten into you?"

I slapped his shoulder playfully, too excited not to. "What? You're not happy for me?"

"Yes, but—"

"I called my grandma." Oh, my cheeks are aching from grinning so hard.

Xander stared at me, then straightened. His mouth was slightly agape.

"It was amazing. Thanks for asking," I giggled.

His expression was a picture to hold. It was a mixture of astonishment and pure joy— but also with a hint of the face you would make when you don't care who's watching. I wished I had brought my Smartphone to snap a photo of him.

I sound so much like Puck, I thought, laughing. Maybe that's the outcome of being so giddy with love— both romantic and familial.

Xander, finally out of his shock, laughed along with me. "I would so hug you right now."

"Why don't you?"

His eyes dropped down and that's when I first saw the large box in his arms. Did the box just jump?

"As you can see, I have something in my hands." He smirked. "And it contains someone extremely precious."

My eyes widened. "Someone?"

"Yeah. Me." Xander snorted when I rolled my eyes. "Kidding. Here, we should open this up inside. With the door closed. This little guy doesn't exactly do rules, you know."

"Little guy?" I eyed the box as Xander stepped in and closed the door behind him, struggling slightly with the load.

I was about to offer to share the weight with him, but he placed it on the floor and carefully unfolded the top. I never took my eyes off the box.

Then I saw the contents.

"Oh my gosh." My hands flew to my mouth. I stared at Xander. "No way. You didn't."

"Yes, I did," Xander said cheerfully, picking up what was inside.

The short legs hung as Xander cradled it in his arms. The ears were like little clouds attached to its face with the adorably perfect snout. Its eyes sparkled with excitement and energy.

And, as Xander passed it into my arms, I became teary again, watching it bounce like a bundle of joy. This was a moment I would never forget; for, even Xander, not knowing my father's background or history, gifted me with a friend.

A friend, who was, ironically, a dog.

"He hasn't gotten a name yet. Figured you'd want to give him one." Xander rubbed the puppy's white belly. "Now you won't be lonely in your apartment. And, you know, if you have any trouble with him, I'll always be there. I don't think I'd even be able to leave, to be honest."

"Yeah, you seem like a dog person." Using one arm to carry the restless animal, I wound my other arm around Xander and embraced him tightly. Not only for his unexpected present, but for all he had shown me. I had been blinded by the sorrow of my loss, and had not been able to see the path right in front of me, but Xander had cleared up the fog and encouraged me to take that first step of the journey.

For, had I not been guided, I would have missed so much of what the future holds for me. All my relationships would have been cut off entirely. All those opportunities would have been blown away by my disability to move on. All my other positive emotions would have been drowned in the pool of my depression.

But, there I was, unburdened by the pain of my loss and justified to smile for myself.

For my father, Mr. Canis, as a happy memory, would be holding my hand every step of the journey.

Even when we meet again.

A/N: Thank you for reading this oneshot! I hope none of you are wearing any sort of masks. If so, share your story.

~Feifeltower