The Owl

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 24,800 in 4 chapters
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: …and miles to go before he sleeps.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.

Notes: Takes place before and during the events of Mad About the Boy. You might want to have some tissues handy.

Yes, it's been a while: some ups (meeting HF); some downs (death of my father). Taken a bit to get back into the swing of it. Hope you all like it.

How did you bring your heart to me and how did I bring my heart to you? Whenever we lay down together you always told me, "Dear, do other people cherish and love each other like we do? Are they really like us?" How could you leave all that behind and go ahead of me?... You are just in another place, and not in such a deep grief as I am. There is no limit and end to my sorrows that I write roughly.…

—From a letter to Eung-Tae Lee by his widow, 1 June 1586

Chapter 1

2008

He had no memory of how he got to London, and it's not like it would have been a short trip by any stretch. Still, he was here now, though felt quite oddly discombobulated, lightheaded, disorientated.

He just wanted to see his family again.

He walked the streets—never occurred to hire a taxi, the walking felt good and strangely not tiring—until he came upon his home. His heart welled with joy, and as he came up the steps the door opened.

So long since I've seen her, he thought. Or them—

Except it wasn't her. It was a man, and it wasn't anyone he knew. And it was then that the oddest thing occurred: the man was suddenly behind him, and he had no recollection of being passed by.

He moved forward, towards then inside the house, calling her name, but got no reply. He stopped short, however, when he realised that everything was different. The furniture. The drapery. Even the colour of the walls.

What the bloody hell was going on?

He turned to call again, when he heard a thundering come down the stairs. He rushed back to the stairs, hope in his heart.

It was still not her. It was a teenaged girl, who hastily opened then went through the front door calling, "Daddy! Daddy! Don't forget—"

He didn't really hear the rest of it, for his gaze landed on a framed photograph: a happy looking couple, one of which was the man he'd just passed, with a woman who was clearly that man's wife, and clearly taken on their wedding day. He furrowed his brow. Who were these people and why were they in his house?

On the front porch again, still pondering what had just happened, he saw a figure on the other side the low iron gate that surrounded the lot. Who it was did not shock him, as she'd been to the house many times before; it was her expression of utter devastation that took him aback.

He called, "Sharon?" She didn't respond, merely turned to a man standing beside her, one whom he did not recognise—which made him think, briefly, of the other man he hadn't recognised; where did he go? Where did the girl go? Why was the sky suddenly so like twilight?—and said something quietly to him.

"This is where they used to live."

"It's beautiful," he replied. American. Not New York, at least not Manhattan.

"Was just too much for her afterwards," Sharon said, pushing her blonde hair from her face. "All of it was… too much."

"I understand." The man opened a car door for her. "Come on, or we'll be late."

"Sorry, sorry. I just had to stop by, for old times' sake." She climbed in.

He called her name once more, and then—

Suddenly he was in the car; he had no recollection of getting from there to here. Had they had a conversation? Why were they still so sombre-looking?

The car stopped. He didn't know to whose house they were going, but they were close to Primrose Hill. "It's the first time I've been back in a while," she said, then took in a deep breath. "First time I've seen her since—well. This is going to be hard."

The man—ah, must be her husband; he recalled she'd married—placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "No time like the present."

She nodded. "Right. Here goes."

The three of them marched to the door. She knocked. An interminable pause before the door swung open, and—

There she was, a balm for his spirit. Though he could barely find his voice, he said her name:

"Bridget."

Bridget didn't react, and instead fell headlong into Sharon's arms, bursting into tears and sobbing.

"I'm so sorry," said Sharon. "I wish Lance and I could have come sooner—"

Lance… Lance… oh yes. He realised that he'd actually known the name, but had forgotten. Lance looked like he didn't quite know what to do. He was feeling a bit of a loss himself, felt invisible, like he wasn't even there.

"Bridget!" he said again, with more force.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you," Sharon continued, as if he hadn't even spoken. What in blazes was going on?

"I know," came the muffled reply before Bridget raised her head; her red, tear-swollen eyes, her pallor, her mussed hair. "I knew you'd come as soon as you could. If not for the children…" She trailed off, looking unfocused, though she was staring directly at him.

"How have you been holding up?"

"If not for the children…" Bridget said again. "If only…"

"Now, stop that," Sharon scolded gently.

"I don't know if I can be strong enough," she said, her voice cracking.

"Of course you can," said Sharon. "He would want you to."

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Lance spoke up at last, in a rush, almost like he might lose his nerve, which was odd since Lance (he remembered suddenly) was a fearless dot-com entrepreneur. "I can't imagine how difficult it's been for you since Mark's death."

He was about to open his mouth, insist angrily that he was standing right there and wonder what on earth they were talking of…

But he realised in that moment that he was beside a window; that the sky outside had darkened considerably; that he could see Lance, Sharon and Bridget all mirrored in the darkened pane, but…

He wasn't there.

"No," Mark said out loud. "No."

It was not possible.

…

Before arriving in London, the last thing Mark could recall with clarity was riding in a vehicle; rough terrain, desolate landscape, and then a sudden nothingness. His thoughts spun around. How long had it been? When had he been in the vehicle? What time of year was it now?

He blinked, brought himself back to the moment, or at least thought he had; he was outdoors again with no memory of moving, outside of the house, and it was apparently midday.

My children, he thought. Want to see my children. Children, he realised, he would never get to hold again. A wife he would never—but was she still his wife? "'Til death do you part" was the vow. What now?

The door opened, and as if reading his mind Bridget came out of the house, bundled for winter weather. Snow. He realised that it had seemed to turn instantly to winter, that the trees were spindly and barren, and a light dusting of snow covered the eaves and sills.

In her arms was the baby. Mabel. His darling girl, whom he'd left when she was only three months old. And tiny, bundled in coat, hat, scarf and mitten, was William—Billy—holding on to a fold in Bridget's coat, brief turn to lock the door, as they came down the front steps and to the car.

I'll always come back to you had been his promise whenever he'd gone away for work, but he hadn't kept that promise, had he? Why had he thought himself immortal? Why hadn't he stayed home, in the protective nest with his family? I am a fool, he thought, then corrected himself: I was.

Riding along the highway now, he was there in the car, looking over Mabel at an impossible angle for a bodily form. A sack of festive gifts on the front seat suggested to him it was Christmas time. He thought about her age when he'd left, so she must have been nine months of age now. Had it been six months? Mabel looked upwards, happy and smiling, making sweet burbling sounds that filled him to bursting with the ache of happiness. His little girl. She would never know him.

And his son, looking ever more like his father had as a boy, with dark hair and eyes, keeping quiet as the car chugged along. Not even aged three.

"Thank you," said Bridget suddenly from behind the wheel; it startled him for a moment, made him think she was addressing him, "for not being screaming nightmares on the drive. Whatever's keeping you occupied, I'm glad for it."

He realised that both of the children were looking where he was and it surprised him so much that he was suddenly no longer in the car, but—

At his parents house; oh, they seemed to have aged years since he had seen them last, and again his heart ached. There were Bridget and the children, out of their outerwear, his mother holding Mabel, cooing at her with glossy eyes, and his father chatting amiably with Billy.

"Are we ready for dinner, then?" said his mother Elaine, looking to Bridget.

"Yes!" said Billy enthusiastically. "Cwismas puddin'?"

This made them all chuckle, and Mark smiled too. His mother's son.

"When will you be going to see Pam?" Elaine asked Bridget. All around the table now, they were, and Mark observed from behind them, moving to see each of their faces; Billy in the high chair, Mabel dozing in her seat, Bridget cutting Billy's food for him.

"In the morning," she said. "She and Una have a thing going on in her… at St Oswald's House."

Elaine nodded. "I'm glad Una went there, too. Must have been so hard to lose Geoffrey so soon after Pam lost Colin…"

In a moment Mark realised the extent of the heartache Bridget must have felt, losing her father, then her husband; he recalled that Colin had only really got to hold Billy once…

"She's always so happy to see the children," said Bridget, in what Mark knew to be forced brightness, as she handed Billy his plate. "And they're happy to see her."

"Yes, yes, who'd like some more eggnog?" His father, never one for much emotion, said this clearly to steer the conversation away from such serious subjects.

"Has it got rum in it?" Bridget asked glumly.

"It can, if you like," said Elaine. "You're not driving tonight."

Bridget smiled wanly. "I'd love to, but better not. Still breastfeeding."

His poor darling Bridget; so pale and drawn, dark smudges under her eyes, blonde hair listless, drawn into a low, utilitarian ponytail. She looked exhausted to the bone, and worst of all, so very sad. First Christmas without him. The children were too young to really understand. Bridget did, all too well. He was glad she was there with family.

"Understood," Elaine said with a nod, then added confidentially, "even if I do think a little nip wouldn't hurt anyone."

She pursed her lips. "Maybe a tiny nip."

"Cwismas?" asked Billy as Elaine put a little splash of rum into Bridget's cup. "Pwesents and Santa come see me?"

Everyone froze; Mark instantly knew why, thinking of the previous Christmas, where he'd donned the suit and beard for his boy, and played up Father Christmas to the delight of the assembled. Bridget cleared her throat, spoke in a quiet voice. "No Santa this year, Billy. Santa is very busy and can't always stop to visit, but he'll always leave something." She unsteadily picked up the eggnog and took a long draw, then offered a little smile to him. "And it's 'Christmas'. 'Presents'. Rrrr."

Billy pouted. "Is what I said, Mummy."

To his delight, Bridget smiled then leaned to kiss his head. "I love you," she said to him, tears falling freely from her eyes. "God, do I love you."

And then it was dark, she was tucked under the sheets in the double bed in the guest room, and beside her was Billy; Mabel slept in a small crib just beside them. Billy, perhaps excited with Christmas anticipation, was restless and woke, looking around as if he'd forgotten where he was.

"Mummy?" he asked quietly.

"Right here, love," she murmured sleepily, then draped her arm across him as if it were a mama bird's protective wing. "Go back to sleep."

Billy, however, gazed upwards to where Mark was standing, furrowing his little brow. "Dada?"

"Oh, Billy." Bridget opened her eyes, drew Billy even closer to her. "Dada's always with you, love," she said in a thick voice. "Always. Like the moon."

As Billy fell back to sleep, he could see her, hear her crying softly in the darkness. He knew he couldn't touch her, but he moved close to her anyway. He imagined his arms around her, comforting her; she did quieten, and he liked to think it had been because of him.

…

2009

Mark learned quickly that time was meaningless in his state. Sure, it still flowed in a linear, forward manner, but there were jumps, stutters, periods that he missed completely. He didn't understand why this happened, but he did his best to try to learn how to control them. Whether he succeeded or not was another story altogether.

If he was going to remain with them, even as a… Ghost? Spirit?... he wanted to be with them as much as he could. He wondered too if there was a goal, wondered too what would happen once he reached it. He didn't want to think about leaving her. Leaving them.

He'd first realised the stuttering nature of his existence when he moved from the dark grey world of Christmas time to a verdant, blooming spring; Mabel's first birthday. Her hair was longer, nearly white-blonde, and put up into two little pigtails. Her eyes were blue and shining; her bubbly laugh, irresistible.

While Bridget looked a bit cheerier, he could still see the remnants of her sorrow in the dark circles beneath, the dullness in the colour of her eyes. Her hair was longer than he'd ever seen it, again drawn back at the nape of her neck; her face was a bit fuller, her clothes loose and sloppy.

Billy, party hat donned, grinned and, as Bridget leaned to light the candles, began singing the birthday song to his sister. Rather than telling him to wait, Bridget joined in, and as they sang out of tune and out of synch, a flash of her old self shone through. Mark began singing too, though he was choking up as much as he could in his state.

When he realised other voices had also joined in was when he realised his parents were there, as were Pam and Una, and an array of familiar friendly faces: Jude, Tom, Magda, Jeremy… even that friend of Bridget's from the television studio, Talitha, standing off to the side smoking a cigarette. All of them sang with smiles and with teary, glossy eyes.

Mabel beamed a smile then, at Bridget's coaching, blew out the candle. A roaring cheer went up in the room. Mabel, thrilled that she'd gotten such a response, began laughing maniacally and clapping her hands.

"Such a big girl you are, Mabel," said Bridget, reaching to kiss her on the head. "Well done, you."

"Cake!" shouted Mabel.

This caused all and sundry to begin to chuckle. Like mother, like daughter, Mark thought, his heart shattering into a million pieces.

Dammit.

Mabel was now nodding off in her chair, chocolate cake crumbs and smears of icing in her hair, on her face, on her front, her pigtails in disarray. Pam attempted to clean her off, then lifted her, murmured soft words to her as Mabel plopped her thumb into her mouth and made whiny sounds clearly about not wanting to go to bed. It was full dark now. Mark cursed under his breath; how could he learn to hold on to the present?

"Glad you could come," said Bridget to Elaine and Malcolm. "You don't mind taking back my mum and Una to St Oswald's, do you?"

"Of course not," said Elaine, patting Bridget's shoulder. "It's practically on the way home."

Bridget smiled; she and Mark knew it wasn't completely true. "I really appreciate it," Bridget said. "I don't really have guest space in this house, not like…" She trailed off, her eyes welling again. "Well. You know."

Elaine nodded. "Thanks for having us down. Hope to see you soon."

The two women then said their goodbyes with an embrace, and it took every ounce of reserve for Mark to keep himself focused on the moment. I don't know what causes these time jumps, but… I want to see the guests leave, Mark thought. I want to see Bridget and the children, want to see her put them to bed, want to see how she is when no one else is around.

He wanted to be alone with her again. Even if he never really could be.

Mabel was easy to put down for the night in the crib in the room she shared with her brother, who occupied the lower bed of bunk beds. Mabel was so wiped out from her exciting day that she only needed to be put into a fresh nappy and pyjamas, then laid gently into her little crib and she was out like a light. A year old already; Mark could so vividly remember her birth last March, holding her, small and warm against his chest, taking in the sweet smell of her newborn-ness. Billy was a bit more wound up from the sugar in the cake and ice cream, but what she did to calm the boy surprised Mark:

She recited, from memory, the story that Mark himself had written for the Baby Princess, all thoughts resting for the night like baby birds and rabbits into their homes…. It was practically word for word as he had made it up.

When she finished, Billy seemed fast asleep; she drew the duvet up to cover his tiny shoulders and kissed him on the temple.

"Mummy?" he asked sleepily.

"What, darling," she said.

"Will you tell us the story, always and every night?"

"Of course I will."

"Oh good," Billy said, then yawned. "You're right, you know," he murmured. "Dada is always with us."

At this she blinked back tears, sniffed, and kissed him again. "As long as I have you, I have him," she said, ruffling his hair in a familiar manner that was intended to cheer herself, but she looked no different. No happier.

"Yup," Billy said, then closed his eyes, no longer able to fight sleep.

She took in a long breath, stood, then walked out of the room, closed the door most of the way, then leaned against the wall and brought her hands to her face, tears sliding over the fingers pressed up to her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He swore he could read her mind—Is it ever going to stop hurting this much?—and wanted desperately to be able to console her. If he were actually in a position to offer such real comfort, he realised, she would not need it.

But as suddenly as her outburst had begun, it stopped. She stood up straight, took in another breath, and wiped her face dry. "Okay," she said. "Can't let the darkness get me. Must keep on." She sniffed. "Must keep buggering on."

His sudden laughter would have startled her had she been able to hear him; it was something he had occasionally heard Sharon say, and it was a wonderful flash of the old Bridget, even in her sorrow.

Somehow he moved to be in the master bedroom before she arrived, so he was there to meet her as she came in. She took off her shirt, her trousers, all of her clothes; she let down her hair from the ponytail and shook it over her shoulders. Beautiful, he thought, as beautiful as she had ever been to him, and he ached to take her into his arms.

She switched the monitor on and brought it with her as she quickly showered. She cleaned her teeth, combed out her hair, then sighed, slipped into her nightgown, and returned with the monitor back to the bedroom.

She peeled back the duvet and sheets, then got in, closed her eyes, and let out a long, steady breath as she turned to embrace her pillow.

"There, there," he said, imagining he could feel the silky hair beneath his fingers, imagining she could actually hear his soothing words.

Before too long—though it wasn't always easy to tell in his state—she drifted into a peaceful sleep, her breathing as regular as a pendulum. He went to look in on the children, Billy, then Mabel. His family. As best he could, he kissed them goodnight.

…

2010

One thing Mark never expected he would've been pleased to see was Daniel Cleaver hovering attentively around his wife. There was no ulterior motive; Daniel was truly concerned for her, and came by regularly to see to her well-being. He also took his duty as godfather very seriously. His intentions were always good, even if his ideas about proper childcare weren't.

Daniel was able to elicit a broader smile than just about anyone else, usually when sharing said child-rearing ideas. "No, Daniel, you may not take Mabel out in the pram to attract women," she'd once said with the closest thing he'd heard to a laugh since his arrival. Or:

"No, Daniel; Billy's too young yet for a football match."

"Not even at the pub?"

"Especially not at the pub."

For all of their years of animosity, Mark was grateful that he and Daniel had had the chance to patch things up after Billy's arrival; they'd had a couple of good years of rekindled friendship, anyway. Once Billy came, Daniel had seemed to give up any designs or any claim on Bridget's romantic affections, and that behaviour had continued once Mark had…

Gone, he thought. He had a difficult time of thinking of himself as gone, not when he was still there with her. Even though she had no awareness of his presence.

On this particular night, a strangely festive yet bittersweet atmosphere permeated the air; Daniel was making dinner for Bridget and the children, who were laughing and giggling as they sat at the table, waiting to be served. Billy in a booster chair, Mabel in a high chair, one on either side of their mother.

"Unca Daniel, when can we have the cake?" Billy asked.

"After dinner," said Daniel as he brought their dinner plates over to the table. Spaghetti Bolognese. He smiled. It'd been a favourite of Bridget's for as long as he'd known her—one he had grown to love, too.

"I like cake," said Mabel.

Bridget chuckled, smoothing her wispy blonde hair down. "I know you do."

"Why are we having cake?" Billy asked, his features gone very serious.

"Because it's a special day," Bridget said quietly, though trying to keep her tone light, cheerful, as she lifted her wine glass to sip. "So," she said, pulling herself to her full height, "eat your dinner and then we can dig into that cake. What do you say?"

"Yay!" said both of the children.

Daniel gave Bridget a look best interpreted as sympathetic.

With adult assistance, the children dutifully ate their portions; after all, they desperately wanted the cake and spoke of nothing else. Then Daniel rose, cleared the table, then said, "Okay, all right, I'll get the cake. Billy, you have a special role to play."

"Do I?" the boy asked, brightening further.

"Oh yes," he said with a wink. "Patience. I shall return presently."

"Cake!" said Mabel with a big grin.

Daniel went to the kitchen; Mark knew he could have followed to see exactly what was happening, but he was more interested in Bridget and the children. She seemed to be using them to hold herself together, to distract herself. She wiped their faces clean of imaginary tomato sauce, until she heard footsteps approaching again. He thought he saw tears brimming in her eyes when Daniel returned with the cake.

A lit candle stuck up out of its centre, the flame moving in the breeze as Daniel walked forward to place the cake on the table in front of where Billy sat. It was curiously devoid of chocolate icing. He guessed lemon glaze cake, which made him smile; it had been his very favourite. Bridget had deigned to make it for him every year on his—

"Are we gonna sing?" asked Billy.

Bridget began, "I don't know if—" she began, then said, "I don't think I can bear to hear it."

Daniel reached to take her hand and squeeze it. "Billy, go ahead and make a wish and blow it out."

"Me? But…"

Daniel nodded. "It's okay," he said. "You're the man of the house, aren't you?"

He smiled a little. "Okay." He paused to consider his wish, leaned forward, then blew out the flame.

"Yay!" shrieked Mabel, clapping her hands. "Cake!"

Billy turned to his sister. "You can't ask what I wished for," Billy said to her, unprompted, "or it won't come true."

He watched Bridget cast her gaze to the side, tears welling again. It suddenly became all too clear what this was all about. A lemon glaze cake. A single candle that Billy blew out. Daniel's presence, his support.

They were commemorating Mark's own birthday, in his absence.

"He would have been—" she began.

"Bridget," Daniel interrupted gently. "Don't." He then stood, reached over and cut the cake, then went back for dessert plates on which to serve them. "Let's have this cake and eat it with a smile. Birthdays are happy things, aren't they?" he asked pointedly, glancing to the children in turn. They looked confused. Then to her: "He'd want happy."

She looked to Daniel. "Okay."

Billy nodded, agreeing, "Okay."

"Wanna big peeth!" exclaimed Mabel.

"You will have a Mabel-sized piece," said Bridget.

Daniel chuckled. "Not as big as Mabel, obviously," he said, slicing off a sliver and putting it onto a plastic kiddie plate. "I think this is just your speed, doll."

Mabel grinned maniacally, then dug her plastic spoon into the cake.

Then the kids were gone, their plates with half-eaten cake on them, and at the table was Bridget sipping at her wine glass, then setting it down. She reached over and plucked up a big crumb of cake, ate it, then sighed.

He's right, thought Mark. I'd want happy.

"Have you noticed? Billy had his difficulties with Rs; Mabel seems to have a bit of a lisp."

She glanced up at Daniel's return. "They're sleeping?"

"They're in their respective beds, which is close enough for now." He said beside her. "I could go back and strap them down, if that'd make you feel better." She chuckled. "Seriously, they're tired. They'll be asleep in no time."

"I know," she said. "I just… I worry. They're all I have."

"You have us, Bridge. You have me."

She looked down. "You know what I mean," she said.

Daniel nodded, taking her hand again.

They're all I have of him.

He then reached for his wine, lifted it up. "To Mark, who was a good man, a fine father, and if he were here right now, he would punch me in the face for holding your hand." She smiled as a tear raced down her cheek. "And would kick my arse for this." Daniel leaned and pecked a kiss on her cheek; Mark instinctively knew that it was not an attempt to come on to her. Mark heard a little laugh escape her, and he smiled too.

"Yes, he would," she said, then raised her glass and touched the rim to his. "To Mark, who I will miss every day of the rest of my life."

"We all will, Bridge."

"Daniel?"

"What?"

She offered a smile again; a small one, but it was there. "I think I'd kind of like it if you called me 'Jones', like you used to."

"I didn't want to…"

Offend you. Hurt your feelings. Remind you of the days before Mark, or make you think I'm trying to erase him from your past…. She shook her head. "I know," she said. "And I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But it's okay if you do." She squeezed his hand. "It's like an old friend, that endearment. I just want you to behave normally with me, including calling me what you always have."

"Okay," he said. "If you insist… Jones."

Daniel and Bridget were then at the door; Daniel leaving, giving her a good, long, warm hug. "Take care of yourself," he said gently, "and I'll see you and the kids very soon." He drew back, speaking in a more normal tone. "Maybe I'll, I don't know, take them to the racetrack with me, or something."

She laughed a little and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "You're a lunatic."

"Yeah, I've been told as much." He drew back, kissed her on the cheek again, and said his goodbyes before departing. She closed the door behind him, threw the locks.

In days past, it would be the time, once all the company was gone, to take a deep breath and settle into bed together to discuss the evening, discuss the day ahead… but now, alone, she simply looked around the house, pulling her lips into a thin line. "Bedtime, I suppose," she said to herself. "Alone."

Not alone, but she didn't know it.

…

2011

"Bridget."

"Hmm?"

Closely Mark watched her, as he always had since his arrival, as she intently pulled out little clumps of chocolate chip dough and plunked them down haphazardly and in uneven clumps onto a baking sheet. Tom was there; good old Tom, stalwart friend and licensed clinical psychologist, able to pull double duty, though Mark was frankly gladder for the former.

"Don't punch me or anything, but…."

"What, Tom?" she asked, pausing in her biscuit making.

"I was just wondering if…" He paused. "If you'd given any thought to dating again."

Bridget didn't say anything; Mark felt his fury burn. What a terrible, callous, insensitive thing to—

"I mean, darling," Tom continued gently, "it's been over three years now. I just thought it might be a good time to suggest shedding the weeds. Or at least start thinking about it."

Bridget continued in her silence, though Mark now only felt shock. Three years. Three years! It did not seem possible that two and a half years had passed since he'd found his way back to her, yet, as he examined his thoughts, as he looked around his surroundings, he realised with a shock that Billy was beyond toddlerhood, that Mabel was no longer a babe in arms. How had he not noticed?

But he knew, deep down, that he hadn't seen the changes because he hadn't wanted to. He had been content enough in this continued existence, this safe little bubble of comfort, and it was easy enough for time to slide by when time had no noticeable effect on him. Although Mark had been looking at her all along, he realised—now, biscuits baked, suddenly alone, children in bed—that he hadn't truly seen her.

He did now, and the weight of his grief and anguish was crushing; she was sad, lost, utterly despondent and alone. Her days were so routine that he would have had a hard time differentiating one day from another if he had been of the living. In fact, she was barely of the living, herself. She was existing, and only then for the children. But for the barest flicker, she no longer smiled; she no longer sparked with energy; she no longer glowed.

She was a shell of her former self.

She was broken.

You fool, he thought, and then looked up to the moon, suddenly noticing he was outside without any memory of moving. He was still on the property, still in the back garden, out amongst the low shrubs, grass, and papery fallen leaves which blew about in a gust. Out of habit, he supposed, he moved to avoid the table on the patio, just as he saw motion out of the corner of his eye—

The odd thing was that there was an actual sensation of being struck, something he hadn't felt since he'd been alive. Not only struck but carried up, carried off, flying up, flying away into the night air, up like a cartoonish ghost (something he had not yet managed to achieve). It was, in its own way, extremely liberating, even in his deep confusion about what was happening. Then the tree, barren of leaves and glowing an otherworldly silver in the moonlight, was there in front of him, and oddly he felt drawn to it, so he aimed for a limb.

Well, he thought, suddenly stopped. That was interesting.

What was more interesting was his feeling of solidness, of weight settling the tree branch ever so slightly down; seeing a darkened window, he looked closer and made out a reflection of the branches. His own reflection, too, he realised, when he moved and part of the reflection did too.

Very interesting, he mused. It would seem I am an owl.

The reflection disappeared as a light came on in the room within. His heart skipped a beat, began to race—here, as an owl, while he had a heart—because it was her. Bridget. As if he hadn't seen her just moments ago, or at least what felt like moments, but how long had it really been? He questioned everything, assumed nothing.

Bridget paced back and forth in the room, crossing the windowpane, and it took a few passes for him to see that she was tenderly holding a child; the white-blonde hair and tiny form spoke of Mabel, and the rolling gait Bridget had adopted told him the poor girl was unable to sleep.

His poor girl, his poor boy. Mabel had not known life with her father at all, but surely felt the acute vacuum created by his loss; Billy, though he'd been small the last time Mark had hugged him… how difficult it must have been for Billy to be without his father.

As she continued to pace he saw Bridget's mouth moving; he suspected she was singing to Mabel, the same pop song she favoured to lull the girl to sleep. He noticed, too, the tears gathering in the corner of Bridget's eyes. Another wave of unhappiness washed over him.

She couldn't go on like this. He knew, even accepted, that it was not possible he could return to her in a way that was meaningful to her, much as he would have wished it, but he couldn't watch her shrivel into someone whom he no longer recognised as the bright, bubbly, funny, witty woman that he loved.

In the blink of an eye he was at ground level again, out of the tree and weightless; he saw the owl silhouetted against the moon, heard its near-silent wings as it shot high up into the sky, watched until he could no longer see it.

With the image of the owl in the silver-grey sky burned forever in his memory, he realised he had not been given such a gift without a reason. It was up to him. Somehow, ensuring Bridget's future happiness seemed to fall to him.