Killian had never imagined himself as an old man. He had never pictured himself with grey hair and wrinkles lining his face. He had definitely never envisaged himself dancing with his daughter at her wedding (to be honest, he had never once considered that he might be blessed with a daughter until she was placed squirming in his arms) or reading to his grandchildren as they sat on his lap in a rocking chair. A wife, three children (Henry, of course, was as much his as Chris and Lily), and five grandchildren was so much more than he ever thought he'd have.
And yet, what he had expected even less than his beautiful family, truly not even considered once in the fifty-something years he had known Emma, was for her to go first and for him to be left going through all of her belongings in their little house, sorting the stuff into piles for each of their children, keeping some things the way they were, boxing others up for himself to keep, but not look at every day. He found a box of old documents – their marriage license, birth certificates (Christopher Liam Jones, born March 17, 8lbs 7 ounces; Lily Ava Jones, born November 2, 7lbs 4 ounces), report cards, college acceptance letters. He was about to put the lid back on when he saw the corner of a hard plastic square, the sight of which replaced all the sadness weighing on his heart with a flood of memories. He grabbed the plastic and tugged it free, pulling out a CD of songs he had made for Emma on their very first Valentine's Day. He sat for a minute, back propped up against their bed, thumb rubbing back and forth absentmindedly, unable to believe she kept this, before scrambling to his feet and rummaging through another box until he found an old CD player. He clicked the disc into place and fitted the headphones over his ears, pressing play and letting the memories dance across the backs of his eyelids.