AN: Hi guys, I'm back! A little later than I had originally planned – this story ended up much longer than I thought when I started writing it last fall. But now it's pretty much done, currently being beta'd by my wonderful beta Liz (thanks again so much for all your help so far!), so I figured it was time to start actually posting, even if it's really scary, because this story is basically my baby. I've had the general idea in my head for over a decade, and when I was wrapping up "When every star…" last year, I started thinking it could work really well in The 100 universe, and here we are! I actually found about a page and a half on my computer when I started writing, and the bones of the story have remained the same, but it's of course taken on a life of its own as well, branching out in lots of different directions that honestly surprised even me at times!

Anyway, time to get started with the story! As always, I don't own anything relating to The 100. I've also decided to take a page from a couple of other writers that I've come across, who put any warnings at the end of the chapters, so you don't have to read them first if you don't want spoilers. If you do want to check them out, just go ahead and scroll to the bottom of the chapter!

The chapter title is from "New York City" by Among Savages. I picked the fic title pretty early on, and I really love it, but then I had a piece of lyrics from a song I also really wanted to use, so I just ended up using different song lyrics as chapter titles. Most of the time, they do have something to do with the story, or that chapter in particular, and I've even written at least one scene based on a song lyrics that I really wanted to use, but there are also a couple of chapters with random lyrics that are just from songs I like because I couldn't find something that really fit.

OK, now I'm really done rambling! I hope you enjoy :)

We are travelers on a cosmic journey, stardust,
swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity.
Life is eternal.
We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other,
to meet, to love, to share.
This is a precious moment.
It is a little parenthesis in eternity

Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

1

Where the Changing of the Wind Don't Seem a Miracle at All

5th Avenue is busy as usual, and Clarke has to weave between cars when the light finally turns green, bumping into other pedestrians on her way across the street.

She loves New York, really, she does, but these days she often finds herself missing the city as it had been when she saw it for the first time, over a century ago. There were already tall buildings, but no automobiles, instead plenty of horse drawn cars and trolleys, and you could stroll down the street without having to constantly battle the other inhabitants for space.

Of course, there are many benefits to today's New York too – Chinese food delivered to your door in the middle of the night, any show you can dream of as long as you're prepared to go off off Broadway, the light twinkling in the many glass skyscrapers on Manhattan when the sun sets over the East River, which she has an amazing view of from her apartment.

She can't complain too much – she has the privilege to live in her absolute favorite city in the whole world once again.

Continuing into the park, she finishes the last of her coffee and tosses the empty paper cup in the trash.

Central Park is never empty, but at just after ten on a Monday morning in late October, it's certainly not very busy, either. The morning joggers are long gone, safely ensconced in their fancy offices downtown, and the lunch rush won't be along for another two hours or so. A couple of dog-walkers are doing their best to keep their charges from getting each other – and any innocent passersby – tangled in their leashes. Two older gentlemen are perched on one of the park benches to her right, reading The New York Times. As she passes them, they fold their respective sections in half simultaneously – one has the news, the other features – and switch, continuing their perusal of each other's sections in silence. To her left, four young women pushing strollers talk animatedly in a language that Clarke quickly identifies as Russian. She doesn't speak it herself, but she does have a basic understanding of it. Apparently one of the girls is unhappy with her employer, who forces her to work too many hours in the day and too many days in the week. Au pairs, Clarke concludes.

She continues up the steps to the memorial and leans against the railing, looking out over the reservoir and the park beyond.

Fall has finally come to the city, putting an end to another long, hot summer. The air has turned crisp and clear and the park is putting its best foot forward with a color show of every shade of yellow, orange and red imaginable – from palest gold to darkest burgundy.

It's Clarke's favorite time of year in the city.

She pulls her phone from her pocket, opening her assignment app to make sure nothing's changed since she left her apartment about an hour ago. She clicks the first Transfer of the day – she has another one in the afternoon, though it's closer to home – and checks the info.

James Henry Wilson, male, 53. October 29, 10:32 AM. COD: cirrhosis. She clicks the coordinates to open a map, and it's still the same spot, just a short walk along the reservoir, by South Gate House. She can see the little blinking dot indicating her position, and in the bottom right hand corner – Time to destination by foot: 3 minutes.

It's only 10:15, so she's not in any hurry, but she doesn't like cutting it too close when she's working, so she starts slowly making her way along the path.

The sun has finally broken through the clouds and water drops lingering on the leaves in the canopies overhead, left over from a shower in the early morning, glitter in the light. The morning started out grey and wet, but Clarke has a feeling it's going to turn into one of those amazing fall days that can only be appreciated to its fullest in the park.

Halfway to her destination, she meets a group of teenage girls, looking to be around fifteen or sixteen – definitely high school age, so they're probably from one of the nearby private schools, either on a break or, more likely, cutting class. As always, her eyes travel to their foreheads of their own accord, noting their Numbers. Most of them will have long lives, she's happy to see, but the last girl, trailing a little behind the others, eyes fixed on the phone in her hand as she taps away at the screen… barely three years.

This is the part of her 'job' that Clarke hates, the part that she never really gets used to. The only thing she knows about this girl, who definitely can't be older than sixteen, is that she won't live to see her twentieth birthday. She doesn't know how it will happen, doesn't know if the girl will be able to even say goodbye to her loved ones, if she'll get to do at least some of the things she dreams of before her time is up. Maybe there's already something taking root in her body that will slowly drain her of life, or maybe she'll just be in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting hit by a bus or shot in a drive-by, another innocent victim of the city's gangs.

Over the years, Clarke has at least managed to suppress the urge to grab strangers in the street and lecture them about appreciating life, about always chasing their dreams and not putting off the things that they really want to do for another day. Because that day might not come.

She can't help glancing over her shoulder, though, her eyes following the teenager as she catches up to her friends, saying something that makes all of them laugh. She hopes that the girl will still have a good life, despite it being cut much too short.

With a sigh, Clarke shakes her head to clear it so she can focus on the task at hand. There's no point lingering on the girl, there's nothing she can do about it. There never is. You can't change a Number, it's set the moment you're born, maybe even before, as far as she knows. That's just the way it is.

She's managed to shake off the blues that always grip her in these situations by the time she reaches the open space in front of the Gate House. At first, she thinks she's alone, but then she realizes that the heap she took for a bundle of blankets on the first bench is actually a man wearing a ragged, too large overcoat and a black, knit beanie, slumped over on the bench.

She pauses at the information board for a moment before continuing past the man and taking a seat on the last bench before the stairs. She tries to study him as inconspicuously as possible, but soon realizes that she doesn't need to bother – he's either asleep or, which seems more likely considering the brown paper bag with a bottle that's dangling precariously from his hand a few inches off the ground, passed out drunk.

If she had met him in the street, she never would have thought he was only 53 years old, he looks at least ten years older. The too-large overcoat looks like he's gotten it from a shelter, she knows at least one in Brooklyn that hands out this type to the homeless. He's wearing thin sneakers that have definitely seen better days, she can see several holes from where she's sitting. She can't actually see the fading zero on his forehead, the beanie pulled down too low, but there's not a doubt in her mind that this is her assignment.

She checks her phone again – 10:23. Nine minutes.

Laughter alerts her to a young couple climbing the stairs before they reach her, and she opens a social media app on her phone, so she looks like she's doing something other than just sitting around waiting. Which is such an odd thing, she still thinks – what's wrong with just sitting and enjoying a moment of silence with yourself as your only company? But she's long ago learned to adapt to the customs of the day and age.

She has a reminder from Raven about her Halloween party on Wednesday, and knows that she won't be able to get out of it this year. She managed to claim she was busy last year, but Raven does not accept a no two years in a row – Clarke knows this from experience. It's always easier when they're not in the same city, but since she doesn't have that excuse to fall back on, she might as well admit defeat.

With a sigh, she clicks the event and then the button to say that she will be attending. At least Raven will be happy.

She keeps scrolling through her feed for a moment longer, liking a couple of posts from friends around the world, before switching to a news app and reading up on the latest news.

Nothing good. There hardly ever is anymore.

By the time she closes down the app, the clock reads 10:30, and she puts the phone away. She might not be as affected by Transfers these days as she was when she first started out, but she still prefers to be prepared. You never know what's coming, and she doesn't want to draw attention to herself by dropping her phone.

She knows the moment James Henry Wilson's heart stops beating and his breathing ceases. The memories invading her mind are instantaneous.

The cupboard is dark and smells bad. Like dirty socks and old milk. Why would there be dirty socks in the kitchen? She wraps her arms around her knees and pulls them to her chest. Mom's yelling through the door.
"Just wait until your father gets home! He'll teach you not to take things without asking."
She was just hungry…

The belt hits her back with a sickening sound and she fights to not wince at the sharp pain. He likes it when she does, likes it even more when she cries out. It's more fun like that. If she's still and quiet, it'll be over quicker.
"Did you finally grow a backbone, boy?"
Dad's hot breath hits her in the face. It smells like whisky.
She hears the belt whining through the air again and then there's another slash of pain.
"Maybe next time you'll keep your mouth shut."

The warm shower feels nice on her aching body, but she can't stay under the spray for too long. If she uses up too much hot water, Dad'll see it as another excuse to take his anger out on her.
She pushes the shower curtain aside and dries off before stepping out of the tub. Wipes the fog away from the bathroom mirror and meets her own eyes. Brown. Mom sometimes sings to her when she's happy, an old song – "Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes". That hasn't happened in a while…
The bruise around her left eye is starting to turn from purplish to yellow. It'll be gone soon. She knows how long it takes for a bruise to disappear by now, knows how to brush off the questions they sometimes lead to, how to look just the right amount of embarrassed as she mumbles about tripping going up the stairs or bumping into a door. She's had seventeen years to learn.

"Is this seat taken?"
When she looks up, a girl is standing next to her, waiting expectantly for an answer. A smile showing off straight, white teeth, green eyes, glittering with joy, amber curls framing a beautiful face.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Clears her throat. "No, you can have it."
The smile widens. "Thanks." The girl sits down next to her. "I'm Sarah, I haven't seen you around before."

Sarah's eyes are intent on hers, her smile radiant.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"
She tunes out the priest and focuses on Sarah. When she raises her eyebrows, she looks at the priest. "Sorry?"
He smiles at her. "Do you, James, take this woman, Sarah, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do."
"And do you, Sarah, take this man, James, to be your lawfully wedded husband."
"I do."

"I hope you know you're never coming anywhere near me again."
She just nods, pushing a strand of sweaty hair out of Sarah's face, trying to ignore the pain in her hand from Sarah's tight grip when she cries out again.
The nurse laughs. "Don't worry, they all say that. The epidural should kick in any moment now, she'll be a lot happier then."
"Nope, I mean it."

"She's perfect."
She wants to say something, agree, but there's a big lump in her throat that's preventing any words from coming out.
"Look at her tiny fingers."
She reaches out hesitantly and the baby wraps her entire hand around her pinkie.
"OK, fine, maybe we can have another one… in a few years."

"Daddy, Daddy, look at me!"
Rose is trying to do cartwheels on the lawn, her chubby legs only staying in the air for a few seconds.
"That's great, Rosie, but Mom said that dinner was ready. Come on."
"I'm coming!"

The sound of screeching brakes makes her look up from the paper. Then there's a scream.
"Rosie! Rosie!"
She moves like through water, somehow making it to the garden. Sarah's kneeling in the street, a car diagonally across it, front right wheel on the sidewalk. She can't see Rosie. If she doesn't move, if she doesn't confirm what her mind already knows, maybe it won't be true.

The coffin is tiny. There shouldn't be coffins this small. There's a single, pink rose on the lid. She had wanted to cover the whole coffin in them, but funerals are expensive. Rosie loved roses, said they were her flowers because she was named after them. She loved pink…
Sarah's next to her, a few inches of space between them in the pew, carefully not touching. She wants to reach out, but knows that Sarah will just pull away. So she focuses her eyes on the priest and swallows hard.

The weight on her shoulder is too heavy. Rosie was so little, hardly weighed anything, she could pick her up with one arm… she loved hanging onto her arm and dangle her feet as she lifted her as high as she could, pretending that she was on some grand adventure in the mountains, hanging precariously off a cliff. How can the coffin be so heavy?

"Sarah?"
No answer. The house is quiet. It always is these days. No laughter, no chattering voices, no music from the radio Sarah always left on so she and Rosie could start dancing in the kitchen whenever one of her favorite songs came on.
She climbs the stairs slowly, tired. On the fifth step, there's a squelching sound and she looks down. The carpet is wet. Why is the carpet wet?
She hurries the rest of the way up. The bathroom door is closed, ted tinted water streaming out under it.
No. No no no no.

The neon sign flickers every now and then – LIQUOR, it says, in capital letters. The U has gone out and part of the R, so it looks more like LIQOP, blinking in a vicious red color. Red like blood.
A bell tingles when she opens the door. It seems wrong, too cheerful for a place like this. A place dreams come to die. The clerk behind the counter looks up but doesn't say anything, eyes empty.
"Vodka."
Dad hated vodka. At least she's not completely predictable.

The first gulp burns her throat. The second goes down easier, and the third barely registers. After half the bottle, the numbness she wants starts setting in. Numbness is better than grief. Better than pain. Better than the images flashing through her mind, a never ending movie of Rosie and Sarah, happy and laughing. Until they're not. Until they're gone. Until she's left behind, all alone.

It ends as quickly as it started, and Clarke finds herself on the park bench again, breath coming in ragged gasps, cheeks wet with tears for someone else's loss. She can still feel the ghost of the belt against her back, the weight of the tiny coffin on her shoulder, the sharp taste of vodka sliding down her throat…

She tries to catch her breath, using a technique she's perfected over the years – breathing in through her nose, holding her breath for three seconds, breathing out through her mouth, waiting three seconds. Repeating. She doesn't need to use it much these days, though. You get used to a lot when you're exposed to it enough.

Some of her friends say that children are the worst Transfers. And she can see that, definitely. The circumstances of those assignments are always the most painful, a life snuffed out almost before it can begin. But the actual Transfers are usually pretty easy – children haven't had time to form many memories.

To Clarke, assignments like this one are worse. The ones where someone has been dealt blow after blow through their life, over and over again had their dreams crushed or their loved ones taken from them.

Almost everyone has some bad memories by the time they die. They've lost grandparents, parents, siblings, friends, sometimes even children. But the truly heartbreaking ones are the people who have lost hope. Like James obviously had.

There are worse Transfers, of course. Many souls at once is always tough, even if the individual memories are dampened in those situations. They're tiring, draining, and can take days to recover from. Clarke has done a few of these, they're as evenly distributed among Soul Keepers as possible, so that nobody has to do more than one every few decades. Most of the time, there's also more than one Keeper working these assignments, depending a little on the total number of casualties. There is a limit to how many souls one Keeper can handle at a time.

Clarke has also done Transfers for rape victims, people who have been physically or sexually abused as children, prisoners of war who have been tortured, Holocaust survivors, kidnap victims, reliving their most horrible memories with them. But even these people usually have other memories, happy memories that take precedence at the moment of death. They don't linger on the bad ones, the way James' subconscious did, almost skimming over the happy ones. It's usually the other way around, brief glimpses of sad and painful experiences and more time spent on happy times. Maybe that's why she's more affected than usual.

Taking one final, deep breath, Clarke gets up, knees a little shaky. James is still slumped over on the bench, the bottle now on the ground below him, spilling its contents onto the ground. She knows it will be some time before anyone picks up on the fact that he's not just sleeping or passed out in a drunken stupor. Most people keep their distance to drunks and homeless people.

She closes her eyes briefly, touching her closed fist to her chest, right over her heart. "May we meet again," she mumbles, a prayer of sorts she picked up from Raven in her early days, when her friend had also been her mentor. She doesn't know where Raven might have gotten it from, but she likes leaving her charges with some sort of parting regards.

As she turns to walk away, she stumbles slightly, legs almost giving out under her, and she pauses for a moment on the stairs, hand gripping the railing.

It's been a long time since she was this affected by a Transfer. In the beginning, almost every assignment had reduced her to tears, something Raven told her was completely normal, but with experience, things got better. She would never disregard someone's pain, but everyday bad memories don't affect her the same way anymore.

She had been planning to stroll around the park for a while, enjoy the fall day, but instead, she takes the path to the 86th Street Transverse, which will bring her to 86th Street Station where she can catch the A train back home to Brooklyn. Maybe a few hours on her couch, with her cat Bastet purring in her lap, some Home Sweet Honeycomb and a feel good show playing on the TV, will make her feel better.

There's a street vendor on the corner of the park, selling roasted chestnuts and hot cocoa, and since she's still feeling a little shaky, Clarke buys a cup. She leans against the stone wall for a moment, letting the drink cool down a little before taking her first zip.

The sugar practically explodes in her veins, calming her still racing heart and stilling her shaking hands.

It was just a bad reaction to a Transfer, that's all. It happens. She's had a bunch of easy ones lately, people passing from old age with long, mostly happy lives behind them. It's not that strange that she's feeling a little rattled from the first tough case in months.

Just as she's finished her chocolate and decided that she's going to take a long walk home (OK, so she'll probably take the train from Times Square, but still), her phone buzzes in her pocket. When she pulls it out, Raven's face fills the screen.

"Hey, Rae," she answers.

"Hey, babe," comes her friend's voice over the line. "I saw that you finally caved and responded to my Halloween party. Getting sick of me nagging you all the time?"

Clarke laughs. "You know me too well."

"That's what being friends for a hundred odd years will do."

"True…"

"You OK?"

"Yeah…" She sighs. "Just had a bad Transfer. It kicked my butt."

"You need me to come over?"

That's one of many things she loves about Raven – it doesn't matter what she's doing, where she is, if her friends need her, she drops everything to be there for them.

"Nah, I'm at the park. I feel better now, anyway, I was thinking I'd take a walk, it's a nice day."

"You could always stop by on your way, I'll be home for another… hour and a half or so."

In a way, it's tempting, but… "Honestly, I just want to curl up on the couch before my next one. But thanks for offering."

The line's quiet for a moment. "If you're sure. Movie night at our place tonight though? Get you out of the post-Transfer funk? Or do you have work late?"

"No, I should be done by six. But only if I get to pick the movie."

Raven heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. But no musicals, I'm still recovering from La La Land."

Clarke can't help but laugh. "I promise, no musicals."

"Good. OK, just stop by whenever, we'll order take out from some hole-in-the-wall place in Chinatown. Love you, babe."

"Love you too."

Clarke ends the call and stuffs her phone back in her pocket, turning left on Central Park West and starting her walk.

There's more people out and about here on the street than there were in the park, cars honking every now and then, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance, the subway rumbling past underneath her feet. All sounds of the city that are ingrained in her bones by now, the music of her soul. She lets herself get sucked into the mass of people on the sidewalk, becomes one of many faceless people in the crowd, and feels the city's spirit start to sooth her mind.

The lights at 81st take forever to turn green, and Clarke checks her phone again, which she felt buzz once a moment ago – a text from Raven, just a bunch of hearts and then, for some reason, an octopus. She shakes her head, sending a single heart back, and has just put the phone away again when she feels someone bump into her from behind. There's nobody in front of her, nothing she can grab onto, and she stumbles forward into the street. There's a loud honking to her left, and she just has time to think "well, this is going to hurt" before a strong hand closes around her wrist and she's yanked backwards, onto the sidewalk again.

The yellow cab that almost hit her whizzes past, the driver yelling something through the open window and leaning on the horn. Like she deliberately stepped into oncoming traffic just to piss him off or something. The light finally turns green, and everyone around her cross the street.

That's New York for you, Clarke supposes. No time to worry about the girl that was just almost run over.

"Are you OK?"

The deep voice reminds her that her savior – sure, getting hit by the car wouldn't have killed her, like it probably would Norms, but it would have hurt like hell for a couple of days – still has her wrist in a death-like grip.

Clarke turns to respond, looking up into dark brown eyes in a striking face, freckles dotted over a strong nose and distinctive cheekbones and chin. Now, Clarke's never been struck by lightning, but she's pretty sure it would feel something like this – electricity buzzing through her veins, making her heart race, palms tingle and shivers run up and down her spine.

She's heard people talking about instant attraction – she refuses to call it love at first sight, she knows it's all about pheromones and chemical reactions in the body, love is a concept invented by humans – but she's never experienced it before herself. Sure, she's met beautiful people that she's known within moments that she wants something with, has had a couple of relationships, not to mention flings and one night stands during her long life, but it's never hit her quite like this before.

"Miss?"

The question pulls her out of her musings and she makes an effort to focus.

"I'm fine, thank you so much," she says, hoping that she doesn't sound as out of breath as she feels. If the handsome stranger does call her out on it – which she seriously doubts – she supposes she can just pretend it's the adrenaline rush of almost getting hit by a car and not the fact that she's practically salivating over him.

"Are you sure?" he insists, eyebrows furrowing and drawing Clarke's gaze to the spot that's usually the first thing she notes when meeting someone new – his Number. But instead, she finds a baseball cap in a violent green color pulled low over his forehead, hiding it from view.

She takes a small step back, to be able to take him in more completely, and realizes that he's wearing the same shade of green from head to toe, except for black work boots. There's a logo on the chest of his jacket, which tells her that he's a delivery driver for a local company. The color isn't exactly attractive, and maybe the outfit should calm her suddenly raging libido, but it doesn't.

"Just a little shaken up," she replies, smiling to put him at ease.

He relaxes a little, releasing her wrist and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He doesn't move away from her, though, and despite her own step back a moment ago, they're really still in each other's personal spaces. Not that she minds…

"Good."

His eyes stay locked on hers too, brown meeting blue in a piercing stare that makes Clarke feel almost naked on the bustling city street. Like he can see right through her skin and into her very soul, uncover all her secrets in an instant. Which is ridiculous, of course, but that's how it feels in the moment.

A car honking nearby makes them both jump and finally break eye contact.

"Well…" Clarke starts, glancing at him again, unable to keep her gaze away. "Thanks again. I should…" She reluctantly nods towards the intersection, the direction she'd been going in, knowing that they can't just stand here.

"Yeah, I have to get back to work," he replies with a half-smile. He doesn't move, though, so maybe he's as reluctant as her to part.

"Important deliveries?"

He frowns at her question, and she indicates his outfit with a nod. He looks down at his clothes and huffs a laugh.

"Right, I'm not exactly inconspicuous in this get-up."

"Not exactly, no," Clarke agrees. "Good luck with the rest of your work day."

"You too… assuming you're working or on your way to work or… actually, just have a good day." Despite the ramblings, he winks at her – actually winks – and his smile turns into more of a smirk, one corner of his mouth lifting a little higher than the other. She can imagine that smile getting him into all kinds of trouble… "And be careful so you don't get run over. Next time there might not be a knight in… fluorescent green armor to save you."

She laughs with him, raising a hand in a half-wave goodbye before forcing herself to turn and join the new group of people waiting at the street, just as the light turns green again. She feels his eyes on her back, though, almost like a magnetic pull, and when she looks over her shoulder after crossing the street, he's still in the same spot. She tears her eyes away reluctantly and forces herself to focus on the path ahead of her, while her mind is still stuck on warm, brown eyes.

Chapter warnings: references to death (including a child's death), suicide, child abuse, car accidents, alcoholism, as well as brief mentions of rape, sexual abuse, torture, the Holocaust, kidnapping