7 years, and the world hadn't stopped. Harry had that to be grateful for. Harry also had a daughter, which was still what he was most grateful for. Cheryl - no, Heather - was happy, Harry was happy, and the world kept on spinning as it was obligated to. He wrote a few more books. It was all so wonderfully normal. If it was a color, it would be a plain, inoffensive brown, tinged with a bit of red underneath for warmth inside it. Except for, of course, for his thoughts constantly returning to 1983. Tennessee Williams died, the 'Star Wars' defense plan was proposed, Samantha Smith wrote her unifying letter to the Soviet Union, and the Cold War was still going on. But Harry rarely thought about any of that. His thoughts were generally more local than national naturally as it was, but 1983 only intensified that. And his mind returned again and again to fog, demons, and a radio kept close by. A radio which Harry still kept, concealed, in his dressing bureau. He tested it once outside of Silent Hill. It played Dizzy Gillespie for him. He shut it off rather quickly.

Harry wished he could shake the want to find out about Silent Hill. That it was better to just keep it as a bad memory and leave it at that, you're happy now, don't need anything else. He had books to write, a child to care for. The world would keep on spinning and he would have to keep writing. There were obligations to keep.

But there Silent Hill remained, in his head, trying to hold tightly onto the forefront of his thoughts, often winning. He didn't have nightmares, not often anyway, but that fog, that crackling static, and the 'god' springing out of Alessa's body just sat there, quite comfortable, knowing their position in his thought was assured.

At the very least, Harry would tell himself, it was hard to learn about Silent Hill now, and with that in place, his survival instinct usually did the rest for him. He didn't have a connection into the cult, he didn't even have a connection to anyone who lived in Silent Hill. A few times, he was tempted to look up a phone number for the town, call one of them, any one of them. A bait shop, a paper mill, a toy store. But he always managed to restrain himself. For 7 years, he restrained himself.

What started the breakdown of that instinct was a package, recieved about a month ago. A plain manilla package, thin, no return address. The weight felt a bit familiar to Harry, and he opened it to find a wax record. Compositions by Johannes Brahms.

Turned over, the album sheath had green ink painted onto it, spelling two unmistakable words.

'Good Cop'.

It only increased from there. Harry recieved another package, much smaller, featuring Cybil's badge. Another package, her sunglasses. Another one, a newspaper with her obituary. And never a return address.

It got to the point where it seeped back into his dreams. Into a very small, very quiet nightmare. The only things in it were Harry, a void of blackness around him, and a gun on the floor.

He picked it up, and the green ink was there once more, saying

'Hers.'

When he awoke, he checked his drawer four times consecutively to make sure the gun was still there.

It was understandable, why Harry's survival instinct faded into that background. It was understandable, why he was looking into travel plans to Brahms. Understandable, why he was finding a babysitter for Heather.

Understandable why he was driving a car there right now.

"It's not Silent Hill," he would tell himself, "It's okay."

---

Maine. Garcian had been there before. Not a bad place. Quiet, the world turned at a slow, even pace there. Rarely did anything newsmaking come out of there, and it seemed the residents liked it that way, for the most part. Two major things to come out of Maine in the last century both involved the Cold War. Samantha Smith, in 1983, and Margaret Chase Smith in the 50s, taking a stand against Joseph McCarthy. Usually, it wasn't somewhere Garcian would go. Assignments would carry him to New York City, Washington D.C, Tokyo - big cities with big names. If you were out for revenge for some bastard in a place with more forest than there would ever be city, you generally couldn't afford to hire the Killer 7.

However, this job was different. More of a control situation. Instead of taking down some high-name figure with too much influence for his own good, it was neutralizing a runaway thief. Someone had gotten their hands on high risk information. So high risk, apparently, that his clients couldn't be bothered to tell him what it looked like. "You'll know it when you see it," they said, and that was it.

For this, Maine at least made sense. A good place to hide, Garcian thought. Little communication, few people to recognize you, plenty of places to disappear to. So long as you didn't stay around the towns, you were pretty much in the clear.

There was a plane touchdown in Portland, and from there, he had a long drive ahead. About 3 hours, at least.

Still, no trouble. The job would be done today.

---

Harry quickly wondered what the hell he was doing, and how he thought he'd even manage to do it in the first place. He didn't know anything about investigation. Back in Silent Hill, getting from one piece of information to another usually involved running around blind for awhile until someone or something came out and pointed him the way. He didn't even have a return address for the letters. His only lead were the facts that Cybil was dead and he was getting things that belonged to her. Cybil worked in Brahms, that's where he went, and that's where he was now.

Stuck with her gun, her badge, and her sunglasses, and nothing to go on. Just feelings of nervousness and starting to think he should go back home.

He'd only gotten one idea, and that was to check the police station - which he did. All that resulted in was some additional guilt. Asked one of the officers for Cybil Bennett, said he was an author, followed by a lie that he once got a letter from her on his books, and wanted to meet her, since he was writing a cop novel. Harry got told what he already knew, that Cybil was dead, and that the circumstances were strange - found her at the Silent Hill amusement park, shot. Couldn't connect the finger prints back to anybody. A shame of a death.

And that was all Harry got. Just him, swimming in his sins, and thanking the police officer. Leaving before his stomach turned too far and would make him vomit out a confession.

Harry wanted to leave. But that stone called obligation sat in his stomach, and kept him chained to Brahms. He didn't know what else to do, he didn't know where to go, he didn't know where to even start. He was a writer. Not a detective.

He stayed there for the rest of the day, simply because he felt he should. Was this supposed to make him exorcise what he had done? Is that all the packages had been about? Bring Harry up here, make him stay for awhile, make him feel awful, force him to remember?

That would have required for someone to have known he had done it at all, though. And who was witness to it? Nobody.

Which, somehow, made Harry feel even worse.

Restless, sometime around 11 at night, Harry left the hotel room he got just hours ago, carrying nothing but his clothes, his wallet, Cybil's belongings, the flashlight and radio he brought all the way up, and a map to Brahms. He looked over it carefully, finding the graveyard, and trudging towards it.

Obligation was like gravity. It didn't matter how far away you were from it, it would still push and pull on you.

It took some minor trespassing and bumping in the dark, before Harry remembered to turn on his flashlight. He walked, slow, carefully, wanting to be as respectful as possible to this mass of dead strangers. They were important to other people and he should treat them as such.

After twenty more minutes of walking, frustration, and doing his best not to think about 1983, Harry finally found her. Cybil Bennett, 1955-1983. 'Made the world go right', said the inscription.

Harry wondered what to do.

He ended up just saying "I'm sorry."

One by one he pulled them out. Cybil's badge, Cybil's sunglasses, and Cybil's gun. Laid them all on her gravestone, and, truth be told, felt just a little better. He should have done this years ago. The guilt of even daring to be here, the feeling that he didn't deserve to be at her grave still held him close, wrapped him up like thick, impenetrable smoke, but still. He was giving back what was hers. He was doing the right thing.

He felt a little better.

He was still at a loss as to what he was really meant to do, or who had sent those packages, obligation still hanging on his shoulders, making his feet drag. But Harry had done something, at least.

As he turned, getting ready to leave, the flashlight turned with him, revealing a small flyer just to the side of Cybil's grave.

Like in Silent Hill, something came out and gave him directions. It was so obvious. So clear where he had to go now. Not what he had to do, but he knew what his destination was.

He hesitated for only a moment. He shouldn't go. But he owed it to Cybil.

Harry took the gun back, and spoke to the grave again. "I'm sorry. I need to borrow it for just a little longer, Cybil. I promise I'll bring it back. I'm sorry!"

With that, Harry tore out of the graveyard, sprinting like he hadn't done in seven years, his destination firmly burned into those frontal lobes.

The flyer to the side stayed at Cybil's grave, motionless. Though faded, enough was still clear to see what it was advertising.

"Silent Hill Amusement Park".