...This is it. The final chapter. This one might not be one of my best ones to date (in my opinion, anyway), but, regarless, it's here. I personally like The Gentleman better, but then again, that's just me :D No spoilers of any sort, in terms of the plotline in The Unwound Future, but maybe there is a slight one for characters. Not telling who's who, tho'

Disclaimers: Gah! Read the first chapter's second author's note, and you'll get why I'm getting annoyed...

"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,

and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

~Kahlil Gibran

The Lady

It has been a week. One week, since the explosion that took her life. Hershel was dressed in a brown coat on top of his usual red vest and white scarf in preparation for her funeral. He still wore his top hat in memory of her, and stubbornly refused to take it off in his house or in the presence of anyone, including his mentor, for the past week, her last request still echoing in his mind.

"So, no taking it off!"

He walked outside his house to see his mentor, Andrew Schrader, and his friend, Clark Triton. Behind them stood Clark's wife, Brenda, carrying a small baby no more than two years old. The Tritons greeted him hesitantly, as if they didn't know how he would react, and offered their condolences while Andrew didn't say anything. He just looked at him with a kind of pity in his eyes that Hershel found infuriating. He didn't need their sympathy. He just wanted to find the monster that did this, and make him pay. Simple as that. He was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode.

They drove him to the cemetery underneath the dreary sky. It's that day all over again, thought Hershel grimly. When they arrived, he went out of the car and walked through the freezing snow, hardly feeling the cold wind outside. Her grave was located on top of a small hill beside a cherry tree. Underneath the bare tree was a simple stone bench where her parents sat, her father crying as her mother comforted him, her movements wooden from her once effortless grace, and her usual warm, twinkling eyes now dull and empty. The service was small; other than the priest, Hershel, Andrew, and Clark's family, only Claire's parents and a couple of her friends were there, huddled together for warmth.

The sermon was short. The priest said his part, while a few others, like her parents and some of her friends, came up and said a few things about her that made Hershel's heart ache. They all placed flowers on top of the casket. One of her closer friends placed on top her flute and her music. Another sang a song, her clear, melodic voice bringing tears to everybody's eyes except Hershel, who was too numb to feel anything. He recognized the song; it was one that she had been so proud about making with her friend, the same person who sang it. Afterwards, they all left rather quickly; only her parents stopping to say hello to Hershel, and to thank him for taking care of her. He blinked in surprise and said nothing.

...Why do you thank me...? He thought, almost angrily. Blame me, hate me, beat me, but for the love of God, don't thank me! I failed her... I've failed all of you! Why do you thank me for not being able to protect her...?

Once they left, Andrew told Clark to wait for them in the car. They complied, and left them, mentor and apprentice, alone on the hill standing near her grave. Andrew waited for a bit to see if Hershel would talk; he hadn't spoken more than was necessary for the past week. It was as if every word was an effort that caused him pain. No one could mention her name in his presence. If they did, he would politely excuse himself, and leave. Once it was clear that he wouldn't speak, Andrew broke the silence.

"...Hershel," Andrew said quietly. "We'll be waiting for you in the car. Don't take too long, alright...?" He said nothing as Andrew patted him on the back and headed down the slope.

Hershel stood there in silence, and looked up at the sky. He stayed there unmoving, like a statue, for a few moments to see if he could remember anything at all about her. It was strange, for someone who he had so many memories with, he could hardly recall what her voice sounded like, or the colour of her eyes. He could barely recall what she looks like. He smiled bitterly. Maybe it's best that he didn't remember these things. He heard slow footsteps moving toward him, crunching the snow as they went, and glanced behind him.

The lady that came forward carried a small stuffed toy; a monkey with a red ribbon on its head. Hershel recognized her; she was at the burial. She looks like she's about to cry, Hershel noticed as she placed the animal near the headstone with exceeding gentleness. She knelt by the grave for a moment, speaking so softly that Hershel couldn't hear anything.

She's a beautiful woman, thought Hershel as he gazed at her. She had a slender figure, her wavy light brown hair framing her face. She wore glasses underneath the black veil and a black dress with trimmed with lace. Although he couldn't see her eyes, there was something about her that was familiar.

She stood up at last, and looked at Hershel. She had striking green eyes that shone with unshed tears, filled with such sorrow that, for one absurd moment, he wanted to make her feel better. He didn't say anything to her, though; there wasn't anything to say. Grief, he remarked to himself, seems to render people speechless, and yet completely understandable. Hesitantly, he took a step toward her, and after a moment, they embraced. She wept softly on his shoulder while he just stood there, holding her close and giving comfort, but he didn't cry. He couldn't seem to find the strength to cry after that day, his tears all seemingly dried up.

After a minute or two, the mysterious lady stopped crying. She wiped away the last of her tears, and looked at him with those bright green eyes, hardened with a determination that wasn't there before.

"You will find the truth about what happened." It was a statement, not a question. Hershel nodded. "Promise?" Hershel was about to nod again when she put a finger on his lips. "I want to hear you say it." He looked at her with those dark eyes, and she saw in them a spark of resolve in those sorrowful dark orbs. The spark grew and grew, until his eyes looked at her with a fire that scared her. His resolve was an inferno compared to the flickering candlelight of sadness. The small candle was still there, it's tiny flame nothing to the inferno that surrounded it, but she could still see it. It only added to the entrancing blaze his eyes showed.

It will be with him forever, she realized sadly. It might fade a bit with the passing of time, but it will still be there. Haunting him. Reminding him of what he lost. She sighed inwardly as she studied his face. He was a handsome man, were it not for the dark circles under his eyes, his pale pallor, slightly tinged with pink from the cold. His eyes, before the burial, were empty. Vacant of everything except a grief so real and tangible that she was surprised that he had the drive to get out of bed and see the day. She nearly didn't.

Then, in a quiet voice that resonated something deep within her, he spoke.

"... I promise."

She nodded, satisfied. She knew that he wouldn't go back on his word. Then, she smiled ruefully at him, and all at once, he knew who she was. He had seen pictures of her, her sister, and his beloved together, all smiling at the camera while hanging upside down from a tree. They were younger then, he knew, but he knew no one else with those eyes. Those bright, expressive green eyes, flecked with gold."... She spoke highly of you," she said as she backed away. "If you ever need a place to stay, come over to Paris for a little while. You'll always be welcome in my home." Just as he began to reach for her, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the snow.

Snow. Hershel looked down at the pure white scenery around him, its seemingly innocent appearance hiding the a more morbid truth— the bodies of the dearly departed. Hershel never really liked the snow; he found it too cold. And far too wet. But she loved the snow, he remembered. She had always loved the snow...

"...It reminds me of a time when I was little," she told him one day when he asked why. They were sitting on a bench near the River Thames, and it was snowing that day, gently covering the scenery in a magnificent blanket of white.

"A friend of mine had come over for the winter. She and her five year old sister were one of my childhood friends who was about to move over to Paris in a few weeks. We would play in the snow for hours and hours, only stopping when our mothers came over in a huff, and even then we would run around them, laughing and screaming. We would surrender ourselves to them only when they promised mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and by then, we would be shivering in our boots and soaked to the bone." She smiled fondly at the memory, her eyes distant as she remembered.

"We used to get such a scolding, but we knew it was worth it. At night, we would try to keep each other awake in vain to wait for Santa to come by. Then, we would wake up and race downstairs to see what we got for Christmas, only to realize it wasn't Christmas yet!" She grinned foolishly. "We would keep doing that for days on end, until we saw our presents underneath the tree. I got a couple of books that I've been eyeing all year from her, while I gave her a monkey with a little red bow on its head. To her little sister, I gave a clarinet and some music, while she gave me my flute. We were all so happy that we danced in circles till the world spun for about an hour, and sang so loudly that the dog howled for us to keep quiet." She laughed, brightening up the air around them with the sweet sound.

"Then, we would continue our antics in the snow for days on end, until they left." Her smile began to fade a bit. "Not long after that, she got influenza and died. I never saw her again." She looked up at the grey sky, hiding her eyes. "I used to cry every year when I see snow. I guess it reminded me a little too much of her. She was only ten, you know," she said, looking at Hershel.

"Her name was Celeste. It's such a beautiful name. It was perfect for a sweet girl like her. Her sister's name was Sam. Little Sammy." She smiled, but her eyes betrayed the sadness within her."After that, I never saw Sam again, either. Her parents thought she would remember her sister if she did, and so kept her away from me. To stop her from crying." She smiled bitterly now. "I knew that her parents were only protecting her... but it still hurt." Her hands tightened into fists, her eyes hardening with a kind of sad defiance. He loved her more for that."We kept in touch indirectly. Her friends would sometimes come over to my house, and we would send letters to each other through them. It wasn't perfect, but at least I knew she was still alive." She bit her lip. "At the time, I think I thought that everyone I ever cared about were dead too.

"As I grew older, whenever I would see snow I wouldn't cry anymore, but instead ask myself why she was taken from me." Her eyes started to fill with tears as she remembered. "Christmas became... a more miserable affair for me. But... after a while, I began to see things differently." She smiled ruefully. "I had to. I was tired of getting sad on the day that everyone talked about, and I knew that she wouldn't want me to be sad. So, slowly, I began to remember all the times we had together. All the fun, happy days we spent in the snow. And that was enough to make me happy." Hershel touched her cheek to wipe off the tears that started to flow from her eyes. "I loved her like a sister, Hershel," she said quietly...

...That was a year ago, he remembered sadly, the loss of her cutting into his heart like a dull knife. He was used to the pain now; all he felt was the emptiness that accompanies it. He knelt near her grave and read her headstone, tracing the words on the marble gently as he read, just as the snowflakes drifted down from the sky.

Claire Foley

June 18, 1923 - December 12, 1948

~We part only to meet again.~

"We part only to meet again," murmured Hershel as he read her epitaph. He wasn't a religious man, but nevertheless, it still brought him comfort. That was its purpose, after all, to comfort the living by putting a message about the dead. He brushed off the snowflakes that landed on the dull marble, and stood up. He looked down the hill, and saw the black car. He could make out Andrew and Clark, both waiting outside for him and talking in the empty cemetery. He heard his friend throw his head back and laugh his barking laugh at something that his mentor said as Andrew chuckled. Hershel smiled sadly. It was a strange feeling, to be a part of the group, and yet be so isolated. It was a lot like being alone on one side of an invisible wall with everyone you ever knew other side.

A snowflake landed on his nose as he found himself thinking of Sam. Sam, who had lost her sister when she was only five. Sam, who had, against the wishes of her parents, mailed letters and kept in touch with her for fifteen years. Sam, so stoic during her burial, breaking down when there was almost no one there to comfort her except a stranger she had only heard stories about. She has lost more than I have, he thought suddenly, immediately feeling guilty and angry at himself for being so selfish. Someday, he promised to himself, I will visit her in her house in Paris. But not now. He looked at the grey sky and at the snowflakes slowly descending from the heavens, soon to be completely covering the landscape in a blanket of white. It's too soon.

"You will find the truth..."

He thought of her words, and found himself wondering what really happened. He realized with a jolt that there was no investigation into the explosion that changed so many lives. He furrowed his brow, and sat down on the bench near the tree. He noted with some anger that there was little to no information regarding the explosion, like what the scientists were after, or what caused the accident. The newspapers said that there was a gas leak, and an accident that caused the explosion, but he didn't believe it. He felt that there was something deeper, more sinister at play here, than a simple gas leak.

Hershel closed his eyes, wishing with all his heart that this was a dream, a nightmare, that he would wake up see her in his arms again. He could finally see her now, clearly, in the forefront of his mind, her beautiful dark chocolate eyes smiling and laughing happily at him. He would be grinning foolishly as he would twirl her around him, dancing to a music only they can hear, it's clear and haunting melody slowly rising and falling with the soft, floating harmony.

Then, he opened his eyes to see the gravestone, the engraving still sharp and clear as the cold bite of the wind. He laughed humorlessly. Maybe it was best, after all. Not to have remembered anything about her, he remarked to himself, smiling mirthlessly at the grave. A thought came to him, and he sighed, feeling as though chains were being placed around his heart, weighing it down with a unbearably heavy sadness, ancient as time itself.

"...I miss you." He said at last, no louder than a whisper. "I miss you so much that it hurts... " his voice broke at the end. He stood there in silence for a moment. He tried to say her name out loud.

"Cl...Cla..Clai—"

— we sit on a bench near the River Thames, talking about her friends while looking at the snow—

—and she's at home early, for once, cooking dinner for Thanksgiving—

—laughing merrily at the forecast, jumping with joy. "It's going to snow!" She catches me, and we dance in the kitchen—

—I'm running, running. Legs burning, shaking. Faster. Must go faster. Have to reach her, have to save her—

—NO!

He closed his eyes, struggling to stop the flow of memories that burst forth from her name, the word that means so much to him. He covered his eyes with his hand as he did this, and laughed bitterly when he failed to stop the flow, just managing to quiet the voices and push away the pictures of his mind for the moment.

"... Seems that I still can't. No matter how hard I try." He looked at the dull grey sky and saw a flock of birds flying south.

How can it be... he thought, feeling a mixture of sadness at her fate, and anger at the world....That the world can keep turning without you? That others can move on with a smile, and never look back?

"... I can't let you go..." he said, sighing. Why is it so hard...?

"After all, every time I speak, I think of all the times we laughed about the anything and everything.

—it hurts to speak to anyone that isn't you—

"—Every time I move, I remember all the times we danced together

—hard to get up from bed and begin the day —

"—Every time I breathe, I can smell your scent in the room

—I miss you so much—

"—Every time I sleep, I dream of you

—I never want to wake up to this nightmare called reality—

"—Every time I think, I think of you."

What he said moments ago slipped out of him, and it was almost without him knowing since he said this so softly that he nearly missed himself saying it. He sighed sadly.

Ignorance is bliss, thought Hershel, when the truth is hard to bear. A strange feeling rose up in him with the tide called emotion. Without thinking, he dives into it.

He senses a deep sadness at her death. Anguish at the memories she left behind to seemingly torture him with, even though he knew he was being unfair. Anger— a bright, blazing, wildfire inside of him—at whoever did this.. A hatred he had for himself, for not being able to save her.

It was then, he thought years later, when he looked back to that windy day in the cemetery, where he stood near his beloved's grave knee deep in the snow she had loved so much, that he turned his sadness and grief into a desire for vengeance, and his desire into an obsession. He will not let whoever did this get away.

Even if it takes a thousand years, he swore silently. Even if it kills me.

The cold wind blew as he heard the snow-crunching footsteps behind him. "... Hershel...?"

He glanced behind to see his mentor standing a few feet away.

Andrew looks worried, Hershel mused. Perhaps I've been here too long.

"Hershel?" Andrew said hesitantly. For all the years he has known him, he had never seen him so distant. So sad.

And so very angry.

"It's time to go."

Hershel looked at him. Andrew nearly flinched. His face was pale and gaunt, while his hat cast a shadow across his face, giving him an unmistakably ominous look. He tensed up, as if he was about to strike his mentor. But this was not why Andrew suddenly wanted to escape from the cold, windy, cemetery, knee deep in snow. It was because he looked into his eyes.

If looks could kill, he would've died that instant and suffered a thousand deaths.

He saw in his eyes a man he had never seen before. His usual warm brown eyes were dark. So dark that they were almost black. They blazed with a hate that promised eternal torment, yet were so cold and calculating that Andrew had no doubt that Hershel would make the perfect killer—he would never get caught. He was too smart for that. In its depths, he could see a hint of sadness there, but that was nothing compared to the blood thirst he so obviously craved. For the first time in all the years he had taught him— taught anyone, really— Andrew feared his student. For if Hershel were to snap this instant, he was a dead man.

Professor Hershel Layton, the kind, inspiring, true gentleman of London, wanted to kill him.

"...Hershel..." Andrew said softly.

They stayed like that for a moment. All was silent, save for the rushing of the wind.

He blinked once.

And it all vanished. Everything vanished in that instant; the hatred, the anger, the bloodlust. All that was left was the sadness. Hershel closed his eyes, as if fighting back whatever dark force possesed him to be tempted to kill his mentor, and nodded his head wearily. After a moment's hesitation, he accompanied his mentor down the hill and into the car, where Clark and his family were waiting.

He didn't look back.

...And that is all she wrote. Hope you enjoyed the story :D