Thank you to everyone for the reviews! To answer some of the questions: you'll see! :)

Title is from "Enough to Go By" by Vienna Teng.

enough to go by

The day begins like any other, like all the days have for the last three years. Has it really been three years? Una thinks. Sometimes she wonders if time really is passing at all. Seasons slip by, Bruce grows taller and Father and Rosemary develop lines on their faces that are a bit too premature, but they are still trapped in limbo - the whole world holding its breath until this war is over. She has been twenty for three and a half months now, and she feels just as aimless as she had at seventeen. She cannot possibly look to the future, not when it is so uncertain.

Una is carefully sorting through Rosemary's music books when the phone rings. Her stepmother has been busier and busier, and as such Una is now giving her music lessons to the littlest Clow girls, twice a week. Rosemary insists that she keep their payment for herself, and Una has a little collection of savings now, tucked away in one of her drawers. She likes it, she finds - her own money to use however she wishes, to save for the future or spend on frivolities. She likes planning the songs she'll teach to the girls, and they are thankfully well-behaved, for Una has never been much of disciplinarian. She hums a bit as she shakes a leaf of sheet music from one of the books. It is a nice song, simple. She'll use it in the next lesson.

It is these thoughts that are interrupted when John Meredith comes in. He has an odd expression on his face, as though he perhaps isn't sure if he's feeling the correct emotion.

"That was Ingleside," he says.

Una frowns. Calls from Ingleside are not uncommon, given the close ties between the manse and the doctor's house, but her father's expression is giving her pause. Her mind races through the possibilities - does Rilla need to see her? Something about the Junior Reds? Or - no, that is too commonplace for the look on her father's face. Perhaps it's something else. Perhaps one of them is ill, gravely so. They need her father for their last rites. Nerves start in Una's stomach.

She is so absorbed in this thought that she almost doesn't hear her father - almost. But she could never miss his next words - if he had whispered them in an upstairs room behind a locked door, she would have heard them.

"Walter Blythe is coming home."

The sheet music slips out of Una's hands. She blinks and quickly gathers it back up, ducking her head to avoid her father's gaze. They are alike - too alike - and she's sure that he could decipher her feelings in an instant. And Una is not prepared for that to happen.

"Oh," she says. "That's - good. Isn't it?"

"I'm sure the Blythes are relieved. We all are," he adds.

There's something he's not saying - something he won't tell her. But Una thinks she knows. She remembered the letter he had sent Rilla, that Rilla had shown her. It had come a few weeks after the news that he had been injured, and it had been painful to read - his certainty that he would die, and his relief. "And life, I think, would be the harder of the two to face - for it could never be beautiful for me again."

But nothing has turned out the way anyone expects, not since that summer of 1914 - a tiny, critical part of Una that she desperately tries to ignore thinks that Walter should know that by now. They all should.

"It will be good to have one of them back," she says, turning back to the sheet music, trying to hide the shaking of her fingers.

"Una - " her father starts, but then stops. Instead, he gives a little shake of his head and turns back towards the door. "Yes, I suppose it will."

When the train pulls in, Rilla Blythe lets out a breath so quiet that only Una hears it. She understands. They have all been waiting, anticipation curled in their stomachs like springs for the last month. Every day, Una had half-expected to hear that he had gotten sick again, or his train had been delayed, or they had changed their minds and decided to send him back to France.

Now, though - now Walter is stepping off the train, all faded khaki and dark hair. Una stands back with her father and Rosemary, Bruce clinging to her skirt, as the Blythes embrace the first of their sons to return - and God willing, not the only one.

"He looks - " Rosemary starts, but then she falls silent. John Meredith silently touches her arm.

The Blythes let him go and Walter comes over, a bit unsteadily. He looks - Una finds that she doesn't know the right words, either. He is still recognizably Walter, in the same way an adult is similar to a childhood picture. Perhaps he is still the same height. But how thin he is! Walter had never seemed to take up as much space as Jem or Shirley - when people noticed Shirley at all, that is - but he had never been spare, not the way he is now. And is that gray in his hair?

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and Una can see skin, bright pink and stretched tight. On his left side, it creeps up onto his neck, almost to his jaw. She swallows. She'd heard what had happened to him, but knowing is different from seeing. She wonders if it still hurts him very much.

It's her turn, now. She steps forward, wondering what to do: take his hand? Kiss his cheek? Kiss his mouth, the way he had her before he left? But no, that was only the kiss of a friend, and - he hadn't thought he'd return, anyway. She settles for extending a hand. He clasps it in his own, just for a moment. The tips of his fingers are rough with calluses - Walter, who had always been so gentle.

"I'm glad you're back," she says - it is all she can think of to say. He says nothing, only nods. She peers up into his eyes and a quiet shock passes through her. Walter's eyes have always made her shiver, not unpleasantly, but this - this is not the same. There's something in his eyes, something empty. What has happened to you, Walter?

She wants to ask but she cannot - not here and maybe not ever. It doesn't matter, anyway, for Bruce has interrupted with his chatter. His says one of his silly, dear, childlike things and they all laugh. Then he asks about Jem and something shifts in Walter's face. Una sees it, and so does her father, for he quickly steps in and tells Bruce that he still has to finish his schoolwork.

Una looks back as they walk away, but Walter is not looking at her. Nor is he looking at anyone else - he is standing still as his family bustles around him, eyes staring into the distance at something they cannot see.

Una shivers, this time with trepidation, and turns to walk home.

Dear Una,

I'm still settling in here, but I thought I ought to let you know how I'm doing - I miss you terribly and writing you is the closest I guess I'll be able to get to talking to you until this war is over. I've been rooming with five(!) other girls, and more to come, and sometimes I roll over in the night and think it's you in the bed across from me. Lillian - for that is her actual name - is getting very tired of being called "Una," I'm sure.

I hope you're not working too hard. I know we should all do their part, but sometimes I think you do your part and all of ours, as well. Or perhaps I'm worrying too much - big sisterly habits die hard, I suppose. I always forget that you're twenty now. So I'll stop nagging - I know it drove me insane when Jerry did it, and now here I am!

It's easy to be cheerful right now, but Una, I am worried. Sometimes it's worse being over here. It was bad enough worrying about all the boys - men - at home, but now - it's worse knowing you could go to them - just take a boat and then walk to where they are, but not being able to. At least in Canada there was the excuse of an ocean between us.

I'm sorry I'm so maudlin, dear. Oh - that's a Walter-ism, isn't it? I must have picked it up from one of his letters. How is he? It's so odd, he used to write in such a way that you could almost feel him talking to you, and now I stare at his letters and wonder what he's trying to say. But he sounds like he's getting better. I'm sure you know more than I do.

But never mind that. I'm sure things are all right. I'm trying to be nice and cheerful, but I'm all run down from nursing and studying and examining. I start the day off in as good a mood as I can, and by the time I have time to write, I'm as grouchy and pessimistic as any Sophia Crawford. I wish I were more like you, Una - but then, if I were you, you would be me, and I certainly wouldn't wish that on anyone!

There, I think that was a less grumpy note to end on. I wish I didn't have to end this at all, but early-to-bed and early-to-rise is the way around here. I'm seeing my first real patients tomorrow and Una, I'm scared to death. But I'm sure they're scared too, so we'll just be scared together, and it will all work out fine. Give my love to Father and Rosemary and Bruce, and give Stripey a hug from me too.

Love,
Faith

"Una?"

Una blinks, the world settling back into focus around her. Rosemary is looking at her from across the breakfast table, half-expectant, half-concerned.

"I'm sorry," she says, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. This is not the first time someone has had to call her back to Earth since - oh, you may as well admit it - since Walter returned. She only hopes no one has made the connection.

"It's all right," Rosemary says gently. "I was asking if you would pass the butter."

"Oh!" Una gives her a small, guilty smile and hands over the dish. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I just - I don't know where my head is, lately."

Her stepmother only smiles. "Or your stomach," she says. "You've hardly eaten."

Una frowns and looks down at her plate - it's barely been touched. She hadn't even noticed.

"I don't have much of an appetite, I suppose," she murmurs. "In fact - may I be excused? I'll take any dishes you're finished with."

Rosemary looks at her as though she's trying to decipher something, and Una quickly escapes to the kitchen with an armload of plates and silverware. She wonders how long she can hide behind her chores and her books before someone confronts her. For she has been distracted, she knows. It has been a week since Walter returned, and sometimes Una wonders if she hasn't just imagined it - if she'll go to Ingleside and find the house empty of its men, that it's all been a hallucination and Walter really is still back in France.

She hasn't visited, either, though she's not sure why. It would be so simple to drop by to talk with Rilla, bring Mrs. Blythe flowers from the manse garden, knit something for Jims. But Una doesn't want to make excuses, not anymore, and not with Walter.

It doesn't matter, anyway, she tries to convince herself as she scrubs a plate with somewhat unnecessary enthusiasm. She has seen Walter only once since he came back, in church. He sat there with his face impassive, and the Blythes left quickly afterwards, Rilla walking close to Walter, as though she must protect him. She probably does - the rest of the Glen stared and whispered, and Una hears them murmur about him - his silence, his reluctance to leave the house - all the time. Some of them mean to be kind, she knows, but she also knows that they would hurt him, somehow.

Faith's last letter had mentioned him writing her, but he had never written Una back, and nobody in the Glen has spoken to him. And - now that Una thinks about it, he had not even said a word to her at the train station. This stings, more than Una wants it to. They had exchanged letters when he went to Redmond and when he went to the front, letters that spoke of deeper things than the two of them had ever discussed before. And she had thought - she had thought - well. Perhaps it had only been a foolish girl's dream, as so many of Una's have been. She is twenty years old now, too old, she thinks, for wishing and wanting. If Walter doesn't care for her, then - then that is that, and that is all.

She is so immersed in making her new resolution that she doesn't notice the unusual vim she's been washing a knife with. It is just a butter knife, but when it slips, it manages to slice the surface of her palm. For a moment she only stares in surprise, then tiny beads of blood begin to well up and she squeaks and rushes to bandage it.

This is ridiculous, she decides later, as she tries to unbutton her dress with only one hand. What will it be next? Will she slip and fall into the stream, lost in thoughts of Walter Blythe? Step into the street without noticing that an automobile is coming? She cannot keep thinking of him like this, so often.

It is only that he is so close now, closer than he's been since they were children - not away at Queen's, not in Lowbridge or Kingsport - and everything is so different. Maybe this time, maybe now.

Or maybe she is pinning all her hopes to a feeling he may never return. He is not the same Walter that had left for the front two years ago, that much is obvious.

Una manages to maneuver her way out of her dress and into her nightgown, pulls her hair loose from its braid, and flicks off the light. She curls under the covers and prays that if - when - she sleeps, she won't dream of gray eyes and poetry.