A/N: I wanted to write this sooner, but one of my friends got married and I was busy with that. I'll post a longer Author's Note soon- in a separate chapter 'cause I want to discuss some stuff, but it's late now so I'll leave things here.
Important point to note: I made some small edits in the earlier chapters here and there, one of which is vital. I thought JJ needed to answer before she asked, so I added that.
Enjoy, and give me your love/hate.


Maria knows who she is as soon as she sees her.

By now, several people have arrived. A well-built, muscular man with skin the color of mocha and cornrows in his hair that clash strangely with his formal outfit. He has with him what must be his family, a pretty readhead with a tiny baby in her arms. Another man pulls up shortly after, old but still a solid, powerful air about him, with an old but beautiful woman in tow. The muscular man calls them dad and mom.

More old people come. Two women, one slender and graceful, another looking like everyone's favorite grandmother- big, fluffy, and, Maria is sure, jolly in better times. A couple, the husband with eyes that indicate an Asian origin. A hispanic-looking man. Two more woman- one African-American- tall and big, her gray hair in a buzzcut, one shorter but still with the same kind of gravity, somehow. In fact, all these people have that in common- a quiet, formidable energy, a sense of power. Nobody will think of dismissing them as just an old and gray bunch.

Then three more people arrive. Two men- blond, blue eyes, good looking, and sharing the unmistakable family resemblance of brothers. She is with them. Small, hair the deep dishwater brown of a former blonde, old skin taut over her delicate features, wrinkled hands, but blue eyes sharp and clear. Yet, Maria doesn't miss the pain in her. Everybody here is distraught; that much is obvious. But this woman- the grief etched in every line of her face, the fractured light in her eyes, the way she carries herself- like she has received a physical blow and now it is impossible to recover…

Maria has seen some of these people before, even if only in pictures. This woman she has never seen. But as soon as she does, she knows.

This is her.

This is Jennifer.

It's not hard to tell that the people that have arrived know each other. They speak in low tones, hug, wipe their eyes when they think no one is looking. They day matches the mood- gray and cloudy. A chilly wind blows.

Maria is sad too, has been since the day of the death. But now, looking at all these people, another emotion boils to the surface of her mind, sluggish but very real- surprise. It is clear all these people really care, and they would drop everything and come as soon as they were called because that is what they did if all of them are here right now in such a short notice- then why did Mr. Reid never mention them? Why did he give vague answers when Maria asked him about his family and friends? Why didn't he want this people around?

Mr. Reid said he didn't have much family to begin with, and the ones he'd had were all dead. Questions about friends were met with casual dismissal- 'They live away. I'd rather not bother them….' Maria figured he just wasn't very close with his 'friends', never had been or maybe once was but drifted apart from them later in life. But now, for the first time Maria wonders if it might be just the opposite of what she thought- Mr. Reid didn't want his friends around because they were too close. When you're trying to hide from yourself, wouldn't you hide from the people who know you too? And Mr. Reid very much used to hide from himself. And then he wasn't there anymore.

Maria also can't help feeling a little betrayed. 'Don't', she tells herself, but the feeling is undeniably there. She was the closest to the dead man on the last days of his life. Everything from the procedures at the hospital to this funeral service was handled or arranged by either she or her boyfriend, Carl. Yes, it is true that Mr. Reid, on the last day he was… the last day he was present, gave Carl very specific instructions- requests. 'I've written everything down', he said. He told them where they'd find the notepad. And he really did have it all down- from finances to timings, from payment methods and ways to draw out the money… and whom to reach out to once he's gone. Maria has sent the emails herself, even the wording pre-chosen by Mr. Reid, and now they are here, and they don't know Maria, and Maria doesn't know them and they feel like Mr. Reid's old friends, real friends and Maria feels isolated,under-prepared, in the dark.

Who are these people?

As if to answer her, one of the women comes over.

'You're Maria, right?', she asks in a soft, low voice. 'You wrote to us?'

'Yes. You are Ms. …'

'Callaghan. Reid was your neighbor?'

'Yes.', Maria doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know how to explain that Mr. Reid had been more than that.

Mr. Reid had moved in the apartment across the hall from Maria's before a little over a year. Maria met him on the first day- a tall, thin old man with a shock of messy gray hair. He said he was a retired professor, which didn't surprise her at all, he looked exactly like a retired professor. There was a chess set among his things. Maria had Shane with him, he asked him about it. They struck up a conversation. Next thing Maria knew, Shane was going over to his apartment multiple times a week for chess lessons. 'He's amazing.', he told Maria.

Maria had her reserves initially. Shane was a special child. His autism was not so severe that he couldn't attend a public school, but he was painfully introverted, preferring to be alone almost all the time, and prone to fits. The unlikely friendship between her son and Mr. Reid felt like a good thing, but Maria had learned to watch good things with apprehension- they tended to be temporary.

In a way, it was. Maria's grandmother died of dementia. It didn't take long for her to realize Mr. Reid has the same disease. He also had that tendency many people with this disease has, the tendency to hide it. He was good at it too. Mr. Reid was one extremely smart man; that had been obvious from the very first. But dementia doesn't discriminate, doesn't forgive anyone. You can't really hide it when you fail to recognize someone whom you see everyday, when you are suddenly confused by the same topic you were easily talking about five minutes ago. And he deteriorated fast.

But not before really helping Shane. Not before teaching him chess, giving him books to read, even showing him magic tricks. And when the bullying problems Shane faced in school got severe and Maria cried in front of Mr. Reid, telling him how they couldn't afford to send him to a school for special children, he listened. Then he simply gave them the money.

Carl and Maria protested, saying they couldn't just take his money like that. But he was adamant. 'I have no one to leave money to, really. And I don't have a lot of use for it. It's just sitting in a bank. I'd much rather help Shane.', he said.

So, yes. They were really grateful, and even discounting that, Maria had come to love the old man. Witty, polite, and a true gentleman with a good soul, Mr. Reid was unlike a lot of other rude and cranky old people, heck, even younger people, Maria had met.

Mr. Reid didn't talk about his dementia, and didn't like anyone talking about it. But that couldn't be kept up for too long. He steadily got worse. Maria doesn't work now. She had time, and she really cared for the old man, so she gradually started to take some responsibilities, help him take care of himself. She could manage well enough in the beginning, but then it got to be too much. He needed help more often (even if he denied needing it), he had days when he would see, hear, know, do nothing. Maria felt genuine sadness, seeing him try so hard to keep hold onto his thoughts, memories, keep that sharp mind of his. He got angry, then sorry. He got frustrated, then devastated. But it's like trying to catch water in your fists. You can't win.

They had to get him a caregiver. Then, on his last days, he had to be transferred to a hospital. It was hard to watch- a beautiful mind in ruins, a face that so often offered warm smiles now vacant, not a hint of recognition in the eyes that used to sparkle with love and affection.

These people here, his friends, they didn't have to see it. Maria did.

'Maybe that was the point', Maria thinks. 'He didn't want them to see it.'

The service has begun. Ms. Callaghan has walked back to her friends. The funeral director is speaking. He asks if anyone would like to share anything. He looks at Maria and Carl, which makes sense since they are the ones that met with the director before. Maria steps up to speak after a moment's hesitation. She doesn't really know what to say at first- in the middle of strangers, who seem to have known a different Mr. Reid, what can she say that will resonate with them? Then she chides herself. They're not the ones she'll be talking for. She will do it for Mr. Reid.

She starts haltingly, talking a bit about how they came to know him, then it gets easier and she talks about his kindness, his wit, his helpful and giving nature…

Carl has to stop Maria. She doesn't know when she's started crying. She steps back, trying to calm herself. This is already hard enough for Shane.

Carl says a few words. Then the solid-looking old man steps forward.

'Spencer Reid', his voice shakes a little, 'was my brother. We didn't share parents, no; but we shared more than that. We fought together, we saved people, saved each other…'

What is he talking about?

Maria glances at her family. Carl looks as puzzled as he is. Shane's face is the same stony mask it has been for the last few days. As Maria listens, her surprise grows. Was Mr. Reid in the military or something? She couldn't picture it as however much she tried. Impossible.

'… he chose to pull away in the last year of his life, and he must have had his reasons…', the man looks like he's forcing out the words, like he hated missing the chance to personally find and shake Mr. Reid by the neck- 'What were you thinking?'But he takes a pause to steady himself and continues, 'but as frustrating as it had been, we knew we had to trust him. He did what he thought was right. He always did...'

From the corner of his eyes, Maria sees Jennifer- at least who Maria thinks is Jennifer- shift slightly.

The man is saying his goodbye now, his voice breaking, eyes wet. He finishes and steps back. The heavy woman is crying earnestly. The graceful one steps up, talks about Mr. Reid's bravery, his excellent service to… the FBI?

Maria remembers Mr. Reid having said he had some federal job before joining Harvard, but FBI?

So many pieces fall into place now- the secrecy, the power coming off these people, these former agents.

This is crazy.

Maria's mind is reeling. She only half listens as one by one, the old colleagues lay their love, memories and goodbyes out in the air, for everyone to listen, for them to relive and remember. The man with cornrows is Hank, who carries the middle name 'Spencer' still. The blond brothers are both Mr. Reid's godsons. They're Jennifer's sons.

Jennifer steps up to talk. She says very little.

'He was my best friend. He was someone whom I found whenever I reached out- no matter why, when, or how. Well, until he went off-grid. But I understand. I loved him before, and I love him now. Spence, thank you. Thank you for all that you gave me, and all that we had together, and wherever you are now, I hope it is a good, peaceful place, free of wants and regrets of life. I love you.'

Her speech was the shortest. But Maria can see she is the hardest hit. It's plastered all over her face.

On a cold day, with the sun blotted out by the pale, gray clouds and the wind blowing through the tree branches and tugging at everything with chilly hands, Mr. Reid is returned to the embrace of the earth.

There will be no wake, at least not one that has been pre-planned. Maria needs to go home now. But she approaches the small woman.

'Are you Jennifer?', she asks,

She looks up at her face. 'Yes.'

'I… I have something for you. If it's not too much trouble, can you come with me to Mr. Reid's apartment? Old apartment, I mean. Across from mine. It's not far.'

Jennifer doesn't ask any questions. 'Yes.'


Everything in his bedroom is exactly as Maria left them, except with a thin layer of dust on top.

The books all in neat stacks, notepads opened and unopened, a few pens or pencils strewn about. One coffee mug still near full of days-old stale coffee. Several wooden boards on the wall, all of them covered with small post-its, pinned pages filled with notes and a few printouts. Some of them say pretty clear and simple things, '10:00 a.m. and 10:00 p.m. the red capsules, second drawer', 'Put milk in the fridge, Monday, 08. 12.', 'Bills for March, paid', 'Bedroom door to the right, 10 steps, straight 12 steps till washroom, hallway', phone numbers. Some are mathematical formulas, continuing pages of calculations. Some are quotations. Some are pictures. They look like they have been printed out from social media. Two blue-eyed men standing with their arms around each other, making goofy faces at the camera- #brolove! One muscular guy with cornrows and a confident grin, with a backpack slung on his shoulder- 'Hiking season nd I am GO'. Maria always wondered who this people are. There had never been any clear answer from Mr. Reid. Except she saw them today, and now she knows. Some notes make no sense at all- 'Gone. D.R. 2033' and 'Better away'. The last one is violently underlined.

Jennifer walks around the room, looking at all the boards. Maria leaves her alone. She is sad enough herself, it's better to stay away from someone else's pain. And it was raw, Jennifer's pain- she could almost feel it rolling off her in waves. It makes her a little nervous about what she's going to do. But she's made her decision.

Maria pulls out the box.

Jennifer is looking at her now. She takes a deep breath.

'This was among his things.', she says. 'I haven't had a chance to look at everything but I was cleaning out that chest of drawers the other day, and…'

She offers the box to the woman. She takes it, then puts it on the bed, sitting down beside it. It's a big box.

A big box full of letters.

All addressed to 'Jennifer'.

'I looked at a few of them', Maria admits. 'Not all. Of course, there are so many… look', the old woman does, taking her eyes off of the box and on Maria's face, 'I don't know about you two, your story, okay? Mr. Reid…'

'It's doctor.', Jennifer says, her voice empty.

Maria stumbles. 'What?'

'Doctor Reid.', the woman corrects in that same lifeless voice.

'Okay…', this seems like a strange thing to get hung up about right now, but grief takes people to unnamed places. 'Doctor. Reid.' Maria takes a second to pull he thoughts back together. 'I don't know what story you two had, but it seems like he really cared about you. He… he left detailed instructions in case something happened to him- where to take him, whom to contact- that kind of stuff, but he didn't say anything about what to do with his stuff. Which, I admit, might be an honest mistake or he just didn't think it was important enough, but I think it was intentional.'

Maria looks the old woman in the eye.

'He knew I would see the box. He knew I would meet you at the funeral. He wanted to go not knowing whether you'll ever read his letters or not. He gave that choice up to fate, to me. And I am choosing to give the box to you.'

'How did you know it was me?', the woman stares into the box, full of bundles and bundles of letters.

In reply, Maria sinks her hand into the box, near the left side. She pulls out a small printout of a photograph- a woman inside a room- blond hair, blue eyes, mouth open in a half smile.

'Isn't this you?'


Ava likes old-timey things. She always has. So her roommate, Kiara, isn't surprised when she comes back from the flea market with two boxes full of junk.

'Look at this!', she is so excited, too. 'Actual paper books! Come on! And is this… an iphone 3?!

'Why do you even know what an iphone 3 looks like?', Kiara rolls her eyes, applying bright aqua-colored lipstick in front of the mirror.

'I know my antiques! Ooh, look, a legit oil lamp! My God, today's haul has been too good.'

Kiara wraps her scarf around her neck. It's cold outside.

'Keep your haul to yourself, woman.', she warns. 'If I see you try to 'decorate' the apartment with any more of those…'

'That CPU was nice!', Ava protested.

'Right.' Kiara rolls her eyes again. 'Normal people don't even know what that is.' She opens the door. 'I'm staying over at Lisa's tonight. Bye, and don't drown yourself in your junks.'

Ava doesn't look like she heard anything. 'Is this a whole box full of… hand-written letters?'

Kiara frowns. 'Letters? A. B, C, D…?'

'No, letters!' Ava is almost bouncing with excitement. 'What we had before email? God! Look at this. 'Dear Jennifer…' ink, paper, early 21st century full-words-full-sentences English? Holy shit!'

'Okay, whatever.' Kiara shakes her head and pulls the door close.

Ava picks up a piece of paper eagerly. It's yellow with age, the ink faded. But still readable.

'Dear Jennifer,

It has started.

I didn't want to believe it. I still don't. People forget things all the time when they're old- less blood flow to the brains, neurons aren't created anymore… but I know it's not that. In my case, it's that other thing. The thing I was most afraid of.

Dementia.

And you know what this means, Jennifer, don't you?

That I will be lost. I will be gone long before my body dies.

I talked to you today. Just an hour ago, in fact. But I didn't say this to you. I don't know how to. I don't know if I want to…'

Ava finishes reading and picks up another one.

'Dear Jennifer,

Today was terrible. I yelled at Maria and then felt the crushing guilt. It's not her fault I forgot about the oven and almost started a fire. It's not her fault that I don't want to look at the truth. It's not her fault I decided to get lost, leave, go from everyone's life, your life, before I lose myself. I couldn't let you see it. I couldn't let you see me become nothing. I could hardly bear it when it happened to mom. I can hardly bear it now that I'm seeing this happen to myself. It's an ugly nightmare in slow motion, it poisons you, watching it. It taints your memory of the person permanently and once that happens you can't make it un-happen. I won't put you through that. Any of you guys. I can't.

But I miss you so much and why does this have to be so hard? Why is everything bad now, can you tell me?...'

Ava hauls the whole box full of letters up on to her bed and sits herself comfortably. She picks up another one,

'Dear Jennifer,

Remember the day I left for Boston? All of you came to the airport, and Penelope cried so much, and Michael wouldn't let go of my hand? And when we said goodbye, you didn't hug me, and you know what I was saying in my mind? 'Thank God.', because if you did, if you held me again, maybe, just maybe I'd break. I had been holding myself together for so long, and every time some new nightmare created cracks and breaks I repaired them, covered them up, but there's only so much you can do. I was running, I hadn't wanted to go past the breaking point, and then you said you loved me- the chances not taken, the life we missed… would you blame me if I fell over the edge? Would you blame me, Jennifer, wanting to hold on to you and declare war, on everyone, everything, fate and the world- screaming, 'Mine, and I will not give it up?'…'

'Dear Jennifer,

I couldn't remember your name.

For a full minute, I didn't know who you were.

I had your image in my head, I had that familiar empty ache inside me, a longing, an absence so raw it cuts through everything… but I didn't know why. I didn't know you.

I'm completely off-the-grid now. You won't find me, not even Penelope Garcia will find me. Not unless I want to.

Honestly? I want to. I want to hear your voice. I want to call you and tell you, 'This is where I am, come to me right now.' I want to get on a plane and show up on your doorstep, saying, 'Enough!' We've wasted so many chances, so much time, and now we're at the end, but no one stands between us anymore and I love you so much it hurts, I just want to be with you.

But I can't want that. Your husband was a good man and he died honorably. He deserves more than six months of mourning, and you deserve more than a sick, dying man at your side.

Funny how it's always too late for us, Jennifer…'

'Dear Jennifer,

I don't think I have much time left. I can feel myself fading. My brain, my smarts has gone a long time ago. Now it's my memories. I can feel them go too- frayed edges, then everything smeared together, then shredded like a million pieces of paper and then poof- gone with the wind. I fought for them, you know. I held onto them as long as I could, but it was like holding onto a car that's driving away- it dragged me over dead, hard ground and left me bruised and bleeding, with no result to show for it.

So I let them go now. I sit and think all day. Reliving, remembering for the last time before one day there is just an empty place where a specific memory used to be. You, I think about you so much of the time. The way you sat at the edge of my desk. The way you cocked your head while looking at those maps I worked on. The way you knew the seat beside me was yours...'

...

'Dear Jennifer,

I think this is goodbye. For days I didn't know anything. Who I was, where I was, what anything was. This burst of clarity won't last. I will be gone again. And then I might never come back. Something tells me I won't.

But in this moment, I know. I know who I am. I know who you are. And with absolute, absolute certainty I know this- I love you.

I wish I had you with me now. I lost my old memories of you. I wish I could make one new memory, just one- where I get to see your face, hold your hand, tell you this- tell you I love you and see it reflect back to me on your eyes.

But I would lose this memory too, lose it as soon as I made it, so this is for the better. I will go alone, and I will think of stars. Stars over our head, under our feet, and I don't know now, did this ever happen?

If it didn't, then why does it feel so real?'

Evening has fallen. Ava should really get up, turn on the lights. Put these old letters back in their box. Who were these people anyway? The woman was named, but none of the letters are signed. Ava doesn't know who wrote them.

And still, as shadows cling to walls and the room fades in deep, purple darkness, Ava sits on her beds clutching an old piece of paper, and cries, cries for a man who lived and loved a hundred years ago.