The piano is not firewood yet
But a heart can't be helped
And it gathers regret
Someday you'll wake up and feel a great pain
And you'll miss every toy you ever owned

You'll want to go back
You'll wish you were small
Nothing can solve your crying
You'll take the clock off of your wall
And you'll wish that it was lying

Firewood, Regina Spektor

1952, Korea

Grace was gazing off into the thick shrubbery of the forest, not noticing that her father was approaching. She was too deep in her thoughts that she didn't hear when her father called her name.

"Grace, are you listening to what I am saying?" Her father snapped. He tried to keep his voice down to not alarm the other soldiers.

Grace blinked, confused. "I'm sorry, father. I was lost in thought." She still had her back to him, not feeling like facing him at this moment. Her father had always been strict. He had been the same since Grace was a child. The untimely death of her uncle seemed to only make her father worse.

"You can't be dreaming in the middle of a war. There are more wounded coming in and I need you to care for them."

Grace stood up quickly and faced her father's piercing eyes, "Any severe injuries?" To her relief, he shook his head. They had already suffered great losses and she didn't want to add another soldier's name to the list of dead men because they didn't have enough supplies.

Her eyes scanned the wounded soldiers, her eyes finally locking with blue ones. She approached the soldier and saw that he was quite young. He had suffered a gun wound to his arm and it had been wrapped poorly with bandages in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Sitting down on her knees, she said, "Let me take a look at your arm." Her lips twitched in a poor attempt to smile.

He smirked, "I'll let a peach like you take a look at me any day."

Grace raised a brow, taking the opportunity to examine his features. His hair was a dark-brown curled mess and she had to admit he was quite good-looking. She shook her head at him and hid a smile as she began to undo his bandages. Blood had soaked the whole sleeve of his jacket. "Can you take off your jacket, please?"

The soldier winced as he took off his jacket. The wound was relatively clean, but it still had to be cleaned with alcohol in case any bacteria had found its way into the wound. She hummed and went over to the supply bin. "I'll have to clean your wound before I can bandage you up." She said over her shoulder as she rummaged through the box. "There we go." She said silently to herself as she caught sight of the glass bottle of alcohol.

"So how did you end up here?" He asked curiously as Grace began cleaning the wound, "I mean, being a girl and all."

Grace huffed and imitated him, "Being a girl and all." Her eyes had narrowed in irritation. "If you really want to know, it's because I want to help the soldiers and keep them from dying."

"I guess that's a pretty good reason." He winced again as she began to apply the bandages. "So, what's your name?"

Not sparing him a glance, she said, "Grace Jackson."

"Grace." He murmured as if he was trying her name out.

Raising a brow once again at the soldier, Grace asked curiously, "What's yours then?

"I'm Paxton. Paxton Petty."

2012, San Francisco, CA

Grace shot open her eyes and began breathing heavily. Everything was cold and her whole body felt like ice. "What the hell?" She whispered, staring into the darkness. The last thing she could remember was getting lost in the prison in her search for Dr. Sengupta. She was going to give the woman an earful about what they had done to Paxton.

Her hands roamed the wall as she took uneasy steps forward. She had to find a way out of here. Her hands finally found what felt like a handle, and she pushed it down. At first, it didn't budge. After a forceful pull, the handle loosened and the door opened with a high-pitched screech.

The bright light blinded her for a few seconds as she stepped out into the open. Suddenly, there were sounds all around her. The sounds of cars and people were overwhelming and Grace felt like she was on the brink of breaking down right then and there. All around her were people who were dressed strangely, cars that seemed foreign and things that she had never seen. Her pace quickened, and so did her breath. It wasn't soon before she was running. She ran until her legs couldn't carry her anymore and she collapsed on a wooden bench.

Panic stirred in the pit of her stomach as she tried to recall what had happened and how she had got into that room. Her mind was blank. Had someone knocked her out and brought her to that room? There was no pain anywhere in her body, so that was incredibly unlikely. What am I supposed to do now? An uncomfortable lump had started to form in her throat. Her eyes welled up with tears and she tried to calm down.

Passerby's glanced at her as they briskly walked by her, but none stopped to ask what was wrong. It wasn't until Grace was doubled over the ground, crying hysterically, that a woman called an ambulance.

"Can you tell me your name?" An elderly woman clad in a white doctor's robe sat opposite of Grace. Her gaze was fixed on the younger woman.

"Grace Jackson."

The doctor nodded slowly. "Can you tell me what happened? The paramedics told me they found you lying on the sidewalk in total shock."

Grace hesitated. They would think she was insane if she told them that last she knew, the year was 1963. She didn't have to tell the whole truth. "I was going to speak to a doctor, but I got lost. I walked for a while, trying to find my way back. That's the last thing I remember before waking up in a dark storage room." The doctor nodded again. Grace hated when doctors did that.

"Do you have any family member you want to call to pick you up?"

Grace's heart dropped. What had happened to her family? The last time she had seen them, they had an argument about why Grace was going to visit Paxton. They thought it was idiotic considering what he had done. Her father, who was at the time a 50-year-old veteran, had only snarled at her. Her mother had scolded both her husband and daughter. Her younger brother stood in the doorway, silent. "I-I don't have anyone to call, thank you." Where they all dead? What did they think happened to her?

On her way out of the hospital, a man collided head-on with her and almost sent her flying to the ground. "I'm so sorry!" He exclaimed, holding her arms to steady her. Grace didn't even have time to see his face before he was walking away. The only thing she noticed was his sapphire blue eyes and blonde hair.

Grace started walking but stopped in her tracks when she noticed an envelope on the ground. She picked it up and turned it over. It was addressed to her. It was all too bizarre. These sort of things only happened in movies. Shaking the odd feeling off, she opened the envelope and peeked inside. There was a bundle of bills, a key, and a letter. Fishing the letter out, she unfolded it.

Grace,
I know you must have a lot of questions, and I'll try my best to answer some of them in this letter. I know you are wondering how you got here and what happened, but I don't know either. All you need to know is that you can't speak about it.
The key in the envelope opens an apartment - the address is written on the back of this letter. Get there as quick as you can.
Officially, you are dead - killed in an accident on Alcatraz. Unofficially, you're one of the 63's, along with all the inmates and the guards that were there that night. We all disappeared, and now we are coming back.

She read the letter over and over again. We. If they wrote it like that, they must be either a guard, an inmate, or a visitor like herself. God, all the inmates are coming back too. The worst criminals America have ever seen are walking free.