The memories Abby had of Christmas were always filled with warmth and happiness. The smell of her mother's cooking and the sound of her singing were distinct in the air from the moment she woke up and continued throughout the day. Her mother was always baking something, always humming along with some song that was playing while she scooped batter, filled pies, or scraped up sugar cookies. Even when Abby went off to college and then medical school, she would always make sure she was home for Christmas.

Only this Christmas, for the first time in her life, she was without her mother and for all she cared, she might as well be without a father. This year, she didn't wake in her parents' home. There was no smell of cooking, and the only music that could be heard came from the apartment above hers.

Eric Jackson had started his internship at the same time as Abby. His father owned the brownstone she lived in. Over the summer, a friend of his moved to Philadelphia and he offered it to her, knowing she had been struggling to find a more affordable place to live. The brownstone had been remodeled into two apartments. One upstairs and one down. Eric was already living in the downstairs but offered her the first floor and rent so cheap she couldn't turn it down. Eric was a little younger than her, incredibly sweet, and oh so very protective of her.

A familiar melody drifted down below the floor, making Abby smile. He and his boyfriend, Nathan were starting the morning off with Barbra Streisand's Christmas album. Probably up and preparing for their party later that night. She had been invited, but her back had been hurting and she hadn't really felt all that well these last few days.

Being nearly nine-months pregnant, Abby had shot down every invitation from friends and coworkers to attend one party or another. It wasn't that she wasn't in the mood, although the first year without her mother pulled at her heart with a fierceness that she couldn't put into words, she would rather not leave her bed if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

Unless it was for a cup of hot chocolate, which she was going to need another soon as the one she made not so long ago was almost gone, right along with a sleeve of Oreos. But her bed was comfortable and was getting to the best part in Love Actually. The part where Hugh Grant tells off the President of The United States and then gets caught dancing by his secretary. Was she his secretary? Abby pursed her lips in thought and ran her hand over her belly absentmindedly soothing the little baby kicking within. That small detail had annoyingly slipped her mind, but she blamed it on the pregnancy brain because, as she had discovered, forgetfulness in pregnancy was most definitely a thing.

She would never get to watch that scene, though.

Just as the song had started and Hugh's hips began swaying, a pain, a white-hot searing pain ripped through her middle. She gasped, clutched her belly with one hand while trying to reach over and set her cup on the nightstand with the other.

The cup caught on the edge of the table and fell to the floor. What remained of the chocolate spilled all over the rug and the hardwood floor. The pain was so intense she clamped her lips together and let herself fall slowly to her side, whimpering, trying not to scream while she waited for the pain to ease.

Minutes passed and the pain was still there, still as intense, refusing to subside. She may not have specialized in obstetrics, but she knew enough to know something was wrong and needed to get help. With what little strength she had, Abby managed to pull herself up, to reach for her phone that had been charging on the table beside her bed. Her hands shook as she dialed 9-1-1 and her voice trembled when she explained her situation to the woman with the kind, but firm voice telling her not to panic, that she would have help on the way.

In the back of her mind through the fog of agony, she remembered her apartment door was locked, and she'd need to go unlock it for the paramedics. She got up from the bed, the sight of blood on her sheets poured fear and dread through her like someone had dumped a cold bucket of ice water over her head. Her pulse thundered, her mind raced over all the things that could be wrong, but with every step, her mind fogged, her steps became weaker, the pain more and more intense that by the time she made it to the door it was all she could do to stay on her feet.

The deadbolt to the door slid easily to the side, and she let her weight fall against the wall as she tried to blink away the spots that danced in front of her eyes. But then, the world began to tilt and she knew she was about to lose consciousness, so she slid slowly down the wall until she was seated on the floor. There, she ran a shaky hand over her stomach, whispered words of assurance to the baby in her belly that help was on the way, that they were going to be fine, and that she loved her more than anything in the whole world.

Another pain lanced through her and this time, Abby didn't hold back the scream that rose in her throat. The phone she had been holding up to her ear, slipped from her hand to the floor. She tried reaching out for it, but before she could the blackness took her.

Abby woke the same way she did each and every time she had this nightmare. Gasping and sitting up in bed with her heart pounding in her chest. There were tears on her cheeks because for a moment, a ridiculous stupid moment before she remembered it was a dream she had hope that she would wake to find her baby wasn't gone. That she made it, that she was safe and not gone from her forever.

But her baby girl was gone, and that tiny bubble of hope popped, because when Abby woke later that night it wasn't with her baby safe inside her or in a small cot beside her bed, but with her father sitting in a chair looking ragged and worn. His eyes met hers a second before he told her how sorry he was, that the baby was gone and that someday Abby would realize how much better off her life was going to be without her.

That had been three years and two months ago now, and Abby still dreamt about that day. Still woke feeling her daughter's absence so deeply in her chest it almost suffocated her. A part of her that wished she would have asked to see her baby. But she hadn't, and now all she could do was picture her. Picture a little girl with her smile and her father's eyes.

Marcus' eyes.

There were times since when she picked up her phone and wanting more than anything to call the number still saved even though she knew his number had changed since the day he gave it to her. She knew because she called it a year after she lost their baby. She had been heartbroken when his voice hadn't answered, but she wasn't sure if the feeling came from losing Marcus too, or relief that she wouldn't have to break his heart right along with hers.

Sniffing, Abby reached out for her phone where it laid under the pillow beside her to check the time. It was just after five in the morning. She rolled over and brushing her hair away from her face, and sighed. She should probably get up and take a shower. She could never find a peaceful sleep after dreams of what happened.

In the kitchen, she set her first cup of coffee to a strong pour and waited while the Keurig machine did its thing. She had to be at work at nine. Her third year of her residency had begun a few weeks ago and thank God. She wasn't sure how much more she could take to being under the supervision of Thelonious Jaha. Not only was he the Chief of Medical, but a world-class pretentious asshole who couldn't keep his damn eyes off of her.

One of these days, she would think bitterly and walk off in the direction of wherever he wasn't. Abby reached for her coffee as it finished up. Mount Sinai waited for her as soon as she finished at Beth Israel, and then she would tell him exactly where he could put his compliments and occasional (weekly) offers of dinner.

Or she would just leave and not say anything because he was the type of man who would say something about her departure or hold it against her for future use. New York may be full of doctors, but it would be her luck to end up needing a favor from him or someone in his hospital, and she really would hate it if his resentment followed her.

With a sigh, Abby took her cup of coffee in hand. She made her way back to her room while putting thoughts of past sadness in a box that wouldn't be opened while she was at work, and any lingering thoughts of annoying bosses aside.

But just as she was about to head for the shower her phone began to ring.

Her brow furrowed. There wasn't anyone she knew off the top of her head who would be up at this hour. Her best friend Callie could hardly make it on time to her shift at the hospital by ten let alone be up and calling her before six. Walking over to her bed, she curiously glanced down at the number.

"So much for putting away the past," she murmured, reading not the number, but the name on the screen.

Andrew Walters.

Abby hadn't spoken to her father in almost a year, and before then it was only once after she lost her daughter. He had shown up at her graduation regardless of her telling him not to come so that he could tell her how proud he was, and to hand her a check. Her inheritance.

While she still wanted nothing from him, whatever had him calling and so early, must have had a reason behind it. So she answered against her better judgment, even though he deserved being a permanent name on her 'straight to voicemail' list along with Thelonious Jaha and annoying telemarketers.

But it wasn't her father, it was her aunt. And it was only her aunt's tears that had her twenty minutes later hailing a cab to take her downtown to Mount Sinai Hospital.


In a small music studio an ocean away, Marcus Kane wore a pair of headphones while he strummed notes on his guitar as the finished the last song for the new album he'd written. If he was honest with himself, it would be a lot like his last. Almost every song spoke of love and loss. Almost always a song about a girl who got away, always one about missing a great love that was gone forever.

He tapped the end of his pencil on the sheet of paper. It's good, he thought with finality and removed the headphones. Placing them on the stool beside him, he let out a soft sigh allowing himself to fully feel the exhaustion that had been building these last few weeks working endlessly to be done for a while.

While most of his days were spent drinking copious amounts of coffee, writing and recording demos, this latest project, a second record of all his own songs not co-written with anyone, had been bloody arduous. Thankfully, next week he could return to his normal, more relaxed routine.

"Marcus Kane, do you know how late it is?" a woman's American accented voice asked from somewhere behind him. He turned in his chair to find the daughter of the president of the record company, Diana Sydney standing in the doorway. As their head AR in charge of finding new talent, she'd been the one to "discover him," as she would say, in a pub just outside of his hometown of Edinburgh, playing a song he'd wrote about a year after Abby left. She liked taking credit for him. Liked to make sure he knew she was solely responsible for his success.

He didn't mind it so much, after all, he was grateful for her signing him and giving him a good job doing what he loved. But he knew damn good and well her interest in him went beyond the professional, and if he were to show even the smallest bit of interest, she would use those tan legs and senseless six-inch heels and jump on the opportunity. But he didn't have one. Aye, she was attractive. He as good as admitted it to his best mate in the pub one night when Sinclair asked him why the hell he hadn't gone for it yet. The truth was and still continued to be he wasn't interested in anyone who wasn't his Abby.

He hadn't answered yet, and she raised a brow and that movement lifted him from his thoughts back to the present. "Just wanted to finish this."

"Let's see." She walked over to him and took the headphones from the stool beside him and sat. She crossed one leg over the other in an attempt to what he could only assume was to draw his eye. He kept his eyes up though, and eventually, her eyes left his and fell to the paper in front of him. Of course, she had to lean closer to have a good look. Whatever perfume she wore she had to have touched up before she came to see him because it was potent. Strong enough he had to hold his breath to keep from outright coughing from it. It was quiet for a moment while she read the notes and words on the paper. Finally, she straightened her posture and flashed him a look. Frustration mixed with amusement, he thought with a repressed smirk. "You know, I've always wondered who it was who broke your heart so bad you spend your days writing sob story after sob story."

He sat back if not to escape her perfume but to put some distance between them and gave her a wry smile. "Does it really make a difference as long as it sells?"

The look in her eyes told him she understood. He wasn't about to tell her the story behind his songs and to her credit, she didn't push it, for which he was grateful.

"No, I guess it doesn't," she said, then stood. "I'd ask you out for a drink, but then I'd hate my best songwriter to lose his inspiration."

He chuckled. Well, that was a relief. "Thanks for the compliment, I think?"

"It was. This album's going to be a hit. Go home, Marcus." The sound of her heels on the laminate floor paused in the doorway, and he looked over to see why she hadn't left. She leaned against the door frame; her blue eyes meeting his once again before she smirked. "But it wouldn't kill you to try and write something a little less heartbreaking for once."

His lips pull up, another soft chuckle rumbled up from his chest. Still, he shook his head. "Maybe one day."

With that, she did leave and for good this time. He let out a loud breath, and rose to his feet, collecting his sheets of papers and straightening them before stuffing them into his knapsack. His guitar he collected from the stand to put it into its case while sparing a glance at the picture of taped to the inside. It was one of many they'd taken with a disposable camera and later would split between them. One of five he had of just them. His favorite. One that she snapped while they were looking at one another. Smiling like a couple of young, love-sick idiots.

He let himself remember that day for another moment, then snapped his case shut and pulled on his coat.

Spring didn't have the bite that had been left from winter as of late. Still, he zipped up his coat against the lingering chill and made his way to his car. He was a pitiful sod, and he was fully aware of that. He had been told by friends on many occasions how crazy he was for pining after a woman he only knew for two months and if he really loved her that much he should have gone after her, or go after her.

Jesus, if they only knew how much he wished he had or could.

She'd been gone for six weeks and he hadn't heard a word from her in two. The last call from her they talked about him coming to see her in the fall during her break, but now there was nothing. She wasn't answering her phone or any of his messages, and he couldn't think of a reason why she wouldn't.

A knot in his stomach was twisting his insides, a feeling so powerful he couldn't shake, a feeling that told him something was wrong. When another week went by, he made the decision before he could think too much about it. Using all he had in savings, Marcus booked a ticket on the first plane to New York.

When he got home to pack, his mother was there waiting for him like she did every Sunday evening before she dragged him to mass. Not this Sunday though.

"Marcus where do ya think you're going?" she asked after him when he told her he couldn't go and that he might be gone for a little while.

"But where?" she asked again.

"New York," he called down the hall.

"Ya can't just go running off after a lass," she went on because she knew why he was going. He wasn't surprised either. Abby was all he talked about as of late, but what else could he do? He was a goddamn fool in love, and he didn't care who knew it. "Stop and think a moment about this, Marcus-"

He laughed. Told her how he'd thought of nothing else, and between cramming jeans and tee-shirts into his bag, he asked her if she'd look after things while he was gone. She agreed, albeit reluctantly. Told him she thought him a fool, and he couldn't agree more.

Just as he zipped his bag close and was about to kiss her on the cheek goodbye, his phone rang. His heart swooped in his chest, rose with hope like it did each time the old bloody thing on the wall went off and he stepped over to it quickly answering with a hopeful, "Hello?"

It wasn't Abby. It was his mate and sister's new boyfriend, Sinclair. Marcus listened and sank in a chair beside the wall. Disbelief and shock had him holding the phone to his ear long after Sinclair hung up. He could hear his mother say his name and looked over at her.

"Who was that?"

He swallowed and told her, "It was Sinclair. Aurora and the kids, they've been an accident."