Charlotte felt the feeling of a soft breeze hit her bare hands, causing her hair to toss softly around her head. She was staring across the golden grass plane, patches of pure white snow evident.

It smelt wild and untamed. Like a mixture of fresh rain, a fire that had just burnt out, and crisp wind untouched by human hand.

Charlotte inhaled deeply as she looked back at the beautiful house across the range. It glowed against the sunset. A sailboat on an unsettled sea.

"Are you thinking about me?"

His disembodied voice touched her ears and she let a small smile hit her lips. She nodded, feeling the ghostly touch of his hand upon hers.

She looked to her left to see him stood. His profile was bloody and dark, but she felt safe and calm to see him. Dried blood clumped his brown curls and she watched him for a moment longer before turning her gaze back to the house.

"Why are you thinking about me?"

She shrugged, letting his hand wrap tighter to hers as she watched the beautiful image in front of her begin to smudge as though it were an oil painting.

"It looks like a boat," she finally responded. He laughed, the same choppy chuckle he had always had. He nodded, and they stood in silence for a moment longer. He was in the clothes she remembered, checked flannel and warn corduroy. He smelt of the metallic sting of blood but also the wild rivers he fished in, of warm and wet dog hair, of dirt and life.

She watched the scene in front of her, the soft warm breeze glowing against her cheeks.

"Do you dream of anyone else?"

She shook her head. The trees swayed and bent, the beautiful house emitting the warmest colour she had ever seen. She looked back at him again to see he was facing her, the same smile pressed to his lips from all the years before. His glasses had specks of blood on them.

"Why do you dream of me?"

She watched him intently for a moment, her hand still in his nearly invisible grip. As though he were stone and smoke at the same time.

"Because there will always be a 'we'," he answered, finishing his question. Charlotte smiled at him and felt the fevered touch of his lips to her forehead, the world glowing and burning and melting around them.

Her eyes fluttered open to the warm touch of dawn light and she lay still for a long moment, acclimatising to the contentment of her London home. Charlotte got up slowly, careful not to rouse the exhausted Harry who slept beside her. Winston glanced up at her from his place on the floor, following her soundlessly as she pulled on her nightgown and put her glasses on, and padded silently from the bedroom. She walked through the upstairs corridor, taking in the pictures of friends, of family, of art she had purchased, art friends had made her. Winston stood close by her as she moved slowly, his fur tickling her legs.

Eight months earlier she had come home to their London home to see the golden dog sat in the living room as Harry struggled to put a bow on his collar. She had wept with joy and grief at the same time. Winston had bolted at her as she sunk to her knees, allowing the dog to lick at her face as she cuddled him close. Harry was not a dog person, which made the fact he had followed through with what Will asked even sweeter. She had even started jogging again, taking the dog with her as she weaved through the London streets that were her home.

Charlotte gently pushed open the nearby door, silently padding over the soft wool carpet over the floorboards and kneeling next to the crib. Winston came and curled close to her, his head resting in her lap.

Charlotte stared through the thin wooden bars of the crib at her resting son, his tiny face calm and quiet, his tiny chest rising up and down. The moment she had held him Charlotte had been filled was such an extreme love that every injustice she had ever faced melted to nothing. Everything had led her to that moment, the moment of holding her son in her arms. He was perfect in every way and she hadn't even been able to leave his side when they had brought him home 6 months ago, she had instead chosen to sleep on the floor beside his crib for the first week until Harry had finally coaxed her back to bed and brought a small crib for their bedroom while she adjusted to it all.

Harry had been amazing. A man born to be a husband and a father. She had caught him early in the week holding his son above his head, pulling faces that made the baby squeal in delight. Charlotte had smiled in quiet delight as she witnessed the private moment, Harry discarding his briefcase and coat to sweep the baby up and enjoy his darling child.

Their son.

Henry William Astley.

Henry, a nod to how they met and a nod to Harry's father.

William.

The name had been chosen two days before giving birth. She had laid next to Harry one night, her stomach round and body tired and heavy, Winston curled protectively at her feet. Harry had been reading in the lamplight, looking handsome in his white shirt and sweatpants.

"Are you ok?" She had asked softly. Harry had glanced down, eyebrows furrowed in bemusement, the book still hanging close to his face.

"Yes?" He answered. She chuckled and shifted with discomfort, causing Winston to huff.

"It's been a lot," she clarified. "William…. everything... It's all a lot… are you ok?"

Harry's eyes had traced down his heavily pregnant wife, taking in the beloved blonde dog wrapped around her feet. His eyes had fallen on to her face. She had felt so ugly by the end of the pregnancy, heavy and puffy and exhausted, but Harry was convinced he had never seen her look more beautiful.

"It's hard watching you hurt," he had told her honestly. "I just want to do the best I can to make sure you're ok."

He'd looked at her with such pure devotion her heart had skipped a beat.

"Are you ok?" He asked her. She nodded softly, smiling through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Harry, will you kiss me?" She asked gently. He'd smiled and put the book down, coming to rest his forearm above her head as he kissed her softly, her lips curling to a smile against his mouth.

"I love you," she'd whispered, her hand coming to weave her fingers through his copper hair. "You are an incredible man. I am so lucky. I've never loved anyone as I love you."

She'd felt the tension leave him and felt the burn of guilt that she had let him believe that he had played second best to her grief over Will, as though her life with him was a secondary prize.

"I've been thinking," Harry murmured, his hair tickling her forehead as his head hovered above hers. "Would you like to make his middle name William?"

Charlotte had stared up at him, her hand running down his back and landing on her stomach.

"Really?" She'd asked, her voice emotionless as she processed what Harry had asked.

He nodded softly, his gaze set intently on hers.

"I would love that," Charlotte whispered, tears running silently from her eyes, dripping into her curls haloing around her head.

"Ok, Henry William Astley it is," Harry said quietly with a smile, laying down beside her and resting his hand on her stomach, laid to face her. She turned her head and kissed him deeply once more, the mixture of grief and such tender love for Harry overwhelming her.

Charlotte blinked against the morning light that was now streaming into the nursery, sneaking around the heavy curtains. She looked back to her infant son, overwhelmed once again with love for the tiny human being in front of her.

She had started to have dreams about Will after the birth of her son. It had been hard initially, the emotions so deeply overwhelming that she had found herself unable to process anything that was happening. Harry had finally reached out to Alana who had called back from her undisclosed location, calmly speaking to Charlotte in the middle of the night that she should go to the doctor and ask for antidepressants, that it was postnatal depression.

After that conversation she had had a dream about Will, the two of them sat in a rundown dinner in downtown Baltimore. It was pastel and dreamlike, the smoking quality rippling around Will. He'd asked how she was, and although he was covered in blood, she had told him everything, holding his hand over the table. Her fears, her horror, her unshared shame, and Will had listened and nodded and taken it all on board. He had reassured her and spoken to her with the clarity of someone who knew her in her darkest moments.

She was sure they were dreams of course. Deep dreams that were woven by the strongly built image of Will, the intrinsic heartbeat that he still held within her, but still a part of her wondered from time to time if it was him reaching out to speak to her. She hadn't told Harry about them, but she was grateful that she got to keep Will, at least a part of him, deep to herself and in her mind.

Henry shifted in his sleep and she felt her heart catch with overwhelming love for him.

Charlotte lay down slowly, pulling a cushion from the armchair nearby to lay her head on, her body sinking against the woollen rug below. Winston shifted and lay back against her, allowing her hand to come down and softly scratch at his beautiful golden fur. The top of his head pressed to her chin. Charlotte sighed softly, allowing herself to meditate at the moment. She felt such pure contentment in those moments she felt it pour from her, like a golden light.

She, of course, missed Will. Despite it all, she still missed him. She still loved him in a way that she could never find the words to express. She felt connected to him in the way that her scarred wrist held to her. A torn and healed reminder of pain and pleasure and survival and devotion.

She had found that her life was acclimatisation of pleasure and pain. Her life was ultimately flawed and scarred, but she was no longer wounded. She no longer leaked her pain and blood across the world. She felt contained and adored. She felt whole.

She heard his soft footsteps reach the nursery, Winton lazily looked up before flopping back down and Charlotte let a small smile spread her lips.

He lay down behind her without a word, letting out a heavy sigh as he cuddled her closely. His warm body felt wonderful and she melted into his grip, sighing out heavily as she felt his heavy limbs wrap around her.

Charlotte let the morning light bathe them all, her favourite being on earth wrapped close to one another, contained in the calm beauty of her pedestrian life.

"How is he?" Harry whispered in her ear.

"He's perfect," Charlotte whispered back, smiling softly.

Harry nodded against her hair and she let her life fall to calmness once more.

It was a long road of horror and hurt, of hiding, feeling broken. Fleeing the burning. A journey that had dragged her through the wilderness of the world. She had met a man in Will that had stitched her together in ways she didn't think possible. Taught her to love and be brave. To share and stay, rather than running. A man who had healed and prepared her for the world that she now inhabited.

And even though it had ended in a bloodbath she would do it all over again if it meant she could have the moment on the nursery floor, held by her devoted husband Harry, staring at her beloved son. She would endure it all over again, infinite times, just to have a second in that sunbathed moment.

So instead of meditating on the hurt and the pain, Charlotte instead softly mouthed 'thank you William', a silent prayer to the memory of a ghost that had led her to a happiness she could have never dreamed of.