Well, I think that it is safe to say that you all enjoyed "Stories of the Past", and I had a blast writing it all. But, as I mentioned before, I left a lot to be desired: I mentioned that Danny and Lindsay got married and eventually had twins, but I never really told you anything about their dating life – apart from their first kiss, that is – and I completely left out Mac and Stella's love lives from the story. I told you at the end why Flack and Anna broke up, but I didn't cover their relationship's up's and down's. And good old Elsie…who would like to see more of her in our story? Well, never fear, because I am bringing you the whole story, straight from the mouth of Anna! (Don't worry, the prologue is really deep and stuff, but the all of the following chapters will contain the younger Anna with her humor and wit, without the angst. Haha)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of CSI, CSI: NY or CSI: Miami, as you will see them in this story. I do not care much if you steal any of my walk-on characters, my one-line characters, or my background characters. I will not, under any circumstances, however, tolerate anyone stealing Annabelle Leah Price or Elsie Marie Scott for they are mine and mine alone. Anna's children (mentioned briefly in these chapters) and grandchildren (also mentioned briefly) are also mine, so if you take them, you die. Other than that, I hope that you enjoy this story.

Prologue: Flying

I have always wanted to fly.

I suppose that this is due to the fact that I detest running so much. I see no point in getting sweaty, panting, athletic shoes pounding the pavement below, just to reach some ribbon that you can run through at the end. To me, it is a lost cause, a battle that I could never win. I would stop, half-way through, trying to steady myself and catch my breath. Where was the freedom in that?

No, I have always wanted to fly.

I have always desired to feel the wind through my hair, wrapping itself around my body as I glide gently through the clouds, feet never touching the ground. To become light, airy, and have a feeling of weightlessness—that is what I have always dreamt of becoming. I close my eyes, sometimes, when I am out on the front porch, and just remember the feeling of being free, of having no restraints, nothing to tie you down. I open my eyes, and see that I am old. Yes, I am old.

People always start their stories with "Once upon a time" and then, at the end, there is always a neat little package with the words "happily ever after" stamped on it. I inhale the summer air, smoky and yet sweet at the same time, and think back on my life. I seem to be doing nothing but thinking, lately. I suppose that it comes with the territory of becoming older, wiser, perhaps. But as I close my eyes, my thoughts drift towards that "happily ever after" nonsense. Whoever said that begins with a "Once upon a time" and ends with a happy ending was disillusioned. Now, some may call me bitter. A bit cynical, perhaps, but I call myself realistic. Anyone who believes that your life can end with a few nice little words strewn together—well, those sort of people live their whole lives waiting for the end of the book, now don't they?

I feel that I have always lived my life for the next sentence, the next paragraph, the next page. I've never snuck a peek at the ending, though many a time, I have wanted to. If I had looked at the ending, my ending, then I would most certainly have been a bit disheartened. Most times, we understand what the next sentence has to offer, and many a time, we only think that we know how the book should end. If I created my own story, dictating where to put little bouts of joy, setting the happiness apart from the anticipation with little semi-colons; then I would surely never have inserted any failure, or any pain, or any anguish. I would have deleted them from my story, erased them completely.

But then, I think, my story, your story, the world's story would not quite be the same. Sometimes, I believe, we need those sorts of curveballs in life in order to keep us on our toes, as we anxiously await the last chapter. But more than that, we need those disappointments in life in order to shape our very character, the core of our being. I exhale, balancing a ball point pen in between my fingers. I chew on the cap. It was always a nervous habit of mine, and forever will be. I wonder exactly how to start, where to begin. How do you define a life?

My children have insisted that I spend time writing down all of the things that have mattered to me most in my life. They worry, I know, that I am depressed. But far from it! I assure them. I am not depressed, but inspired, reflective, even. They don't believe me. Eva comes around most weekends, checking in on me, on my health and state of mind. As my eldest, she feels that this is her one duty in life—to take care of others, and to guard the well-being of her family. Baron is here on Tuesdays, usually, to help out around the house. If I need something fixed, he is more than willing to do so. This is his own duty as the eldest male—to fix the brokenness. Leala will often call or write, sometimes more than once a week. She's moved, raising a family and helping out wherever she is needed. That's my Leala—the helper, the kind-spirit, the friend. Noah is still and will forever be my baby. Though he too is grown, he still drives in on occasion, if he is passing through for work. My Noah—the peace-maker—bless his heart and his kind soul will always be there for his siblings, and for me.

And I can see you, wondering about my husband, guessing that I am either divorced or a widow. The funny thing is that I will always be married to Greg, through the love that we shared for one another. Ah, yes, now you understand—I am a widow. At some point in time, I suppose that I knew I would become one, but when the reality of it hits you full force, then you tend to become blindsided, terrified, even. This is why my children think that I am depressed. It hasn't been long—a year, two months, and twelve days. Yes, I still keep track of the time, as if he was only gone for a vacation, or a trip. But I am old, I know, and he was old too. It was his time. I can only wonder when mine will be.

My children feel that I am depressed for various reasons: I do not socialize much anymore. Though, I insist to them that I was never really much of an extrovert to begin with, they assure me that their mother has seen better days. Well, of course I have seen better days! I take a look at my wrinkled skin, my aging body, and my whitened hair. Their mother saw better days a long time ago, and they came and went all too quickly. And still, I have no regrets about life. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. It is remarkable that I still remember that, after all of these years.

The ball point pen is still hovering over a tablet of paper. My fingers have not been affected by bone diseases or brittleness like some of the other elderly women that I know of. Thus, I am still able to write with fluidity and swiftness. But the thing is: I don't know exactly what to write. I could tell you marvelous stories and tall tales of heroes and heroines and princes and princesses. I know you would like those stories. But I have never encountered a dragon, or a prince, or even a knight for that matter. The stories I tell you will lose interest after you search for the happy ending. My dears, there is no happy ending to any story. There is only an ending. I believe that we choose whether or not that ending is happy. We create our own endings. I wanted my ending to be simple, yet blissful. And as I look around now, I see the simplicity, and as I look through the darkened clouds; I think that I see the bliss. But how can you be happy when the love of your life has passed on? Ah, see there is the dilemma. How can you be happy once you lose love? You must first realize that you can never lose love. You can lose people; you can lose friends, acquaintances, children, pets, co-workers: but you can never lose love. I may have lost Greg in a physical sense, but I can never lose his love. Love, my darlings, is something that can never die. It is incapable of the jaws of death. Death stares Love in the face and Love stares right back. Death can take everything from you. I am starting to deteriorate physically: my hearing is becoming impaired, my eyesight is not what it used to be, and my knees and back are aching. You see? Death can begin to take away my body. But Death can never take my love for anyone away. My love for Greg, for my children, for my grandchildren—it will never go away.

I drop my pen on the spot next to me on my porch swing. I can't begin to describe everything in my life that has happened. There have been immense moments of joy, bright, bubbling, and smiling until my face hurt. I smile softly as I recall those moments. And then there were moments of pain, of hurt, of loss. My smile fades and I remember those moments as well. And then, I smile once more. Everything that I have done has brought me to this very porch swing, on this very little house. People who don't believe in a grander plan sure must not believe in a plan at all, for all of the mismatched pieces of my life have fit together and created a jigsaw puzzle: my life. Some of my pieces have ragged edges, aged from wear and tear. Some of my pieces are stained, by tears or by others. And then there are some that are mended, after being broken clean in half. They have been reconstructed and are set into their proper place in the puzzle. And when I take one look at my life, askew as it may be, the puzzle looks spectacular, brilliant, with every piece fitting exactly where it should, in the exact manner that it should.

I drink deeply of the night air, hearing crickets chirp their songs from somewhere in the bushes. A car whizzes past my street, loud music blaring from the front. I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the stars in the sky. I wonder, sometimes, if Greg can see me, if he is watching me. I look at a particularly radiant star and wave my hand slightly. I am sure that he knows I'm still here. And the star keeps shining, a symbol that he is watching me, and will always be watching over me.

I close my eyes and exhale. Life has taught me a lot, and I try and go through my life, once more, making sure that I remember every heartache, and every excitement. Because I know that I need to remember these things for the sake of my grandchildren. They want to hear stories of their grandmother, stories of the past. And I feel that after all of these years; I have been running, chasing something, something that is unreachable.

I have been chasing hope.

I have been running after the one thing that I want most of all in this life: hope. A hope to survive, a hope for the present, and a hope for the future—that is what I have been chasing. That is what we all chase. Of course, being humans, we chase the intangible. It's what makes us human. We strive to reach something that we already have. I already have hope, and I already have love, and I already have joy. And yet, I keep stretching my arms out, hoping to touch that hope or to feel that hope, as if it were a soft afghan or a satin sheet. But hope is not tangible; I can not let my fingers dance on it. It lives on, inside of my heart, and it is what keeps me alive from day to day.

My eyes are still closed and I think of the person that I once was. My skin smoothes out, my hair plaits itself into two neat little braids, long and brunette once more. My eyes become bright, once again, sparkling like emeralds, and my figure is petite. I am small, young, and alive. But I feel a tug on my braid as I study a ladybug crawling up my hand.

"Hey science geek!"

I turn around to see a blond-haired girl with flashing blue eyes. She sniggers at me, and her company of girls laugh too. I don't say anything and continue to look at the bug, with interest, eyes swimming with tears.

"You're a loser, and you always will be," the girl hissed into my ear and sauntered away. I kept my eyes fixed on the ground.

This was where it begins.