I met another of Jack's co-workers once, about three years ago. I didn't know he was with Torchwood at first. He was forward, a flirt, didn't seem to mind at all that I'm blind. He was funny. Sarcastic-funny with a London accent, a slender build, and soft hands. Normally I don't pay any heed to the men that flirt with me; I've been told I'm pretty, but I only know it's true because Jack says so, too. It's not like I can look in the mirror, and I don't remember my own face. Owen Harper never said I was pretty. He just put an arm around my waist and whispered in my ear that he wanted to dance with me.

"I can't dance," I told him with a chuckle.

"'Course you can. You're as graceful as a swan gliding across a lake," he murmured.

"I've never seen a swan," I said.

"Actually," he amended, "you'd put the swans to shame. Dance with me." Not easily dissuaded, this one. "What's your name, love?"

"Miranda," I told him. "Miranda Small."

"Owen Harper," he responded in turn, clasping my hand.

"You've got the hands of a surgeon," I remarked.

"Good guess," he told me.

"You're havin' me on," I said, pulling away.

"Not a bit," he insisted, drawing me against himself. He smelled wonderful. Metrosexual. And he certainly knew exactly where and how to touch a woman to turn her on. "God, you smell good," he said breathlessly, startling me, as I'd been thinking the same about him. "Are you off for the night?"

"Are you asking me to your place?" I ventured.

"I'd be lyin' if I said it hadn't crossed my mind."

"Then yes, I'm off for the night," I replied.

"Let me savour this for a bit," he murmured, his breath tickling my ear, my heart racing.

"What?"

"Dancing with you," he told me simply.

I'd been 90% certain I wanted him up until then, even though I knew at least half of what he said was calculated. At that moment, though, I knew for sure. We'd been dancing nearly half an hour before he first kissed me. Five minutes after that, I was in his car.

He had very soft sheets. I knew from the first that he did things like that all the time; picking up women he didn't really know. Somehow he knew I was new to it, though. Actually, until that night, I wasn't even sure whether or not I was a virgin.

I'd been awake for about five years then, and I hadn't really lived. Part of me had been waiting for Jack. Most of me was just afraid. Normal girls get butchered, murdered... What about a blind girl with no family? I didn't exactly expect Jack to come running to my rescue if I ever got in a bind, though the Torchwood Emergency Line and his cell phone were speed-dial one and two on my mobile. I'd never called him. I never intended to.

Owen Harper was the first lover of my conscious life. He was tender and dangerous. Considerate and all-consuming. He was mind-blowing. He was bliss.

He never came 'round the pub again. I think we're a bit below his usual standards. Gareth always says we don't get nearly enough pretty girls here. Doctor Harper struck me as the sort who took casual sex to the extreme definition: never repeat a one-night stand.

I did figure out who he was, though, the next time Jack came to see me. His hands smelled of Owen, just a hint of moisturizer, almost cancelled out by Jack's own scent. They'd shook hands, or Jack had touched his cheek in one of his odd moments of tenderness. He's not a hard man, in spite of what most people think, my Jack. I almost asked him if he knew a Doctor Harper, then decided to keep it to myself. He eventually let the name Owen slip, and that confirmed it for me.

Torchwood. Bloody Torchwood. Had they done this to me? Stolen my life? Was Jack somehow trying to make up for it? He told me once he's missing two years of his own life. An organization called the Time Agency had something to do with it. He's terrified of what he might have done in those two years. Terrified of the blank, but much more of discovering he did something terrible. I know how he feels.

"I found something, Miranda," Ianto told me. It had been only a few days since we'd first met. "It wasn't in the database," he told me. "I found it in the archives. The paper ones. I'd been looking for any reference to Rift activity around the time your name first showed in public records, with about a year of leeway, that sounded even vaguely like it might have to do with you. Alex Hopkins was head of Torchwood back then, up until... Well, anyway, in late December of 1999 he made mention of a locket; silver with filigrees; that he'd seen on Jack's desk. Said he thought it was a belated Christmas gift for a girlfriend of Jack's or something until he touched it and it glowed. He mentions having photographed it and put it in the unclassified objects bin, but we sort that bin frequently, and there was no such locket. No photo in the database either. I decided to check the files for the photo, just in case, but I didn't really expect to find it. Alex Hopkins died at midnight of January 1st, 2000."

"A locket?" I echoed. "Ianto, what does a random glowing locket have to do with me?"

"Miranda," he told me, "you're wearing it! Silver with filigrees. You were wearing it the night we met, and it matches the photo I found in the files."

"Ianto," I told him patiently, "I don't wear jewellery."

He took my hand gently in his own and placed it on my chest, over my heart. My fingers met metal, oddly cold even though it was nestled in my bosom.

Miranda, could you take off your necklace? Owen had asked me. It's freezin' a hole in my chest!

How on earth had I gotten this locket? How long had I had it? Why didn't I know?

"Jack?" I inquired over Ianto's shoulder. I knew his stride. I knew his scent. Ianto jumped and almost fell off his barstool, grabbing me about the waist so as not to fall, his other hand still holding mine to my bosom. It must have looked quite compromising from Jack's angle. Either that or amusing, but he didn't laugh. "How long have I had this locket?" I asked him.

"All your life," he told me. "I never wanted you to use it, but the way Torchwood was back then... And it was only a matter of time before they found out about you."

"Use it?" I echoed. "Jack, what do you mean?"

"Ianto, come here," he said gravely.

"Jack, I'm sorry. I never—"

"Come over to the doorway, Ianto," he amended, his tone softening. "I'm not exactly sure what this is going to do." Ianto disentangled himself from my arms and stood, going to Jack, who kissed him tenderly. I heard it, and yes, I felt a spark of jealousy. Knowing he was with others was one thing; being present while he kissed them was quite another. "Stay here," Jack told him. "Just watch." Then he came to me. "Miranda," he said, "I hope this is the right time for you to do this. It's been an odd eight years. You were kept safe last year because of what you did in '99, but I was careless with what you'd entrusted to me and it had consequences. Blame me, Miranda, not yourself."

"What for?" I asked him.

"Open the locket," he told me softly.

"Why? It's not like I'll be able to see—"

"You will," he promised me. "We've come a long way. We can help you now."

"Torchwood?"

"Yes. All these years... I've missed you. Open the locket. For me."

So I did. And that's when I got my life back. Not twenty lost years as I had thought, but more than a hundred! A surge of energy emanated from the locket, engulfed me, brought me back to myself.

"Well, that was wild, Jack," I said. "Oh. Different accent. That's weird. I'd gone native!" I remarked, putting a hand to my lips, making sure they were still mine.

"You're American?" Ianto inquired from the doorway. "Or are you from wherever Jack is from that he refuses to say?"

"Neither. Jack is human as they come, Ianto. Just... extended. And from the Colonies. Sort of. I'm from Gallifrey. Long ago and far away. Is the team in, Jack? I don't want to have to explain myself over and over and over and—"

"They're in, Sage, and there's only five of us nowadays. No more quasi-affiliated field operatives."

"When's my father due? You saw him without me, you naughty man. You promised!" I reprimanded.

"Remember what I told you about Harold Saxon killing the President of the United States?" he ventured.

"Yeah, of course. You sounded like you'd spent a year in hell."

"I had. Saxon was the Master."

"That insane son of a whore? Did he hurt my father? Jack, why didn't you bring me back then? I could have helped!"

"You would have died. Everyone did. Your father's fine, though. Paradox machine. Long story."

"What's he like now? Has he regenerated? How does he look? He's always wanted to be ginger," I pressed. "Is he ginger?"

"He barely looks a day older than you, runs around in sneakers and a pinstripe suit, has brown hair, and he's rather cheeky. Fun, though. Scary, but fun."

"That's my dad," I chuckled. "So, my dear Captain Jack, you said I'll see. Did you mean that literally? I'd hate to have to regenerate now after spending eight years as a blind human."

"You're not human?" Gareth said behind me. Oops.

"Jack, why don't we all have a drink before we go?" I suggested. "Gareth, you also. On me."

That was the night we Retconned my boss. When I eventually went back to see him, I told him I'd had cornea replacement surgery, courtesy of a friend of Jack's, and that I quit. But don't walk away yet. I haven't told you about meeting the team.