Over the next week and a half, they reveled in each other. Henry's reserve fell away, and revealed a man whose personality complemented her own. Not identical to hers, definitely not...but compatible in a way she had only suspected might be possible. She found herself thinking back to those years when they had lived so near each other yet so far apart, regretting the time lost to unneeded loneliness. She'd been looking for the right guy…and hadn't ever suspected that he was just feet away from her the entire time.

It fascinated her how much of himself he poured into his work. He told her that for a long time it had been all that he'd had, that his life had revolved around work and...well, work, especially after he'd moved into Room 302. It had helped him get through the first few days of his imprisonment, until he couldn't concentrate on work any more, couldn't concentrate on anything at all.

"But that was then," he said, taking her in his arms.

"Things are different now. Completely different," she replied.

He seemed in awe of her for reasons she couldn't determine. Sometimes, he would just hold her face in his hands and look at her. She saw love in his eyes, and often desire, and sometimes a fear that unsettled her. A lot.

After several days, she was unsettled enough to start wondering if something was wrong. Why couldn't he look at her without that fear? What was bothering him?

One quiet afternoon, Eileen was hanging his pictures on the walls. She'd wanted to do so for some time, actually; he had danced around it for so long that finally, today, she shooed him out of the room and told him not to come back for two hours. So, he went upstairs and occupied himself with work and the bills and the wash as she dug out the hammer and nails and picture wire.

She straightened the last picture, and stood back to admire the result. The large framed image of Venice that Frank Sunderland had given him hung over the couch, as it had back in South Ashfield Heights. The image of the lake hung by the front door, and was the first thing visible upon entering the house. His other photos were placed around the room, and pictures of their families adorned a side table. Pictures of them at their high school graduations, at family outings...and a picture of Henry as a young boy, light-haired and grinning from ear to ear.

There was another, more recent picture on the table. It showed the two of them, standing together on the shore of the lake outside their townhouse. The water spread out behind them, glistening, and the tall trees loomed dark on the sides. They were both smiling, leaning into each other, her head on his shoulder, without a care in the world.

She remembered that afternoon, just last week, when everything had seemed perfect. Henry had set up the camera and told her to stand still, and he'd spent a long time adjusting things until they were just right.

"Ten seconds," he called as he sprinted back over to her.

"Ten seconds," she responded, wrapping her arms around him and crushing her lips against his.

"Mmmf!" he said, waving one arm frantically toward the camera. After several seconds, she released him, straightened her sweater, and turned to the camera with her best smile just before the shutter clicked.

He smiled mischievously at her. "That was close. You're evil, you know, and I know evil when I see it."

"So…what are you going to do about it?"

He raised one eyebrow, then swept her up with one arm and grabbed the camera and tripod with his other hand. He carried her, laughing and pounding his shoulder with her fists, back into the house.

"Caveman," she said. He growled. She laughed. He put her down, and pulled her in to kiss her.

"You're insatiable, woman," he said.

"Which is entirely your fault," she countered. "If you didn't have such a cute little – "

"That's it. Enough out of you," he said, and picked her up in his arms. She put her hands around his neck, and their eyes never lost contact as he carried her up the stairs…

She looked at the picture now, and wondered, was that just a dream?

"Eileen?"

She snapped out of her reverie. Henry was making his way down the stairs, eyes squeezed shut, waving something at her with one hand as he groped for the banister with the other.

"What are you doing?"

"You made me promise that I wouldn't look," he said. He waved his hand again, and she saw her favorite silk shirt hanging from it, the one she wore to job interviews.

"How am I supposed to wash this?"

She smiled to herself. Henry was a one-hundred-percent cotton sort of guy, through and through. He'd probably never even touched silk before he met her. Well, maybe a silk tie or two.

"Good thing you asked, given your history with laundry."

"Hey. That was not my fault, and you know it."

"Cold water. Put it in the delicates bag, and hang it to dry. It'll be fine."

"OK," he said, and slowly groped his way back up the stairs.

Eileen turned back to the pictures, and was just pondering where she should put the picture of the bicycle from Silent Hill when the phone rang. "I'll get it," she yelled.

Two minutes later, she was streaking up the stairs, calling, "Henry! Henry!"

He came out of the bathroom, carrying a pile of dirty towels. "What? What's wrong?"

She launched herself at him, and the towels fell to the floor. "Nothing, Henry, everything's fine…better than fine." She stepped back. "I got the job at Garland's firm," she said. "I start in two weeks!"

Henry stood, stunned, for a moment, then swept her up off the ground in a bear hug. "That's great!" he said, spinning her around on the narrow landing. "That's the one you really wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes! It's like a dream come true! And the pay is good, too. Now I can really feel like I'm back on my own two feet," she smiled.

He put her down, and she knew immediately that something was wrong.

"Henry? Henry, what is it?"

Henry's face was a mask. Not this, Eileen thought, he's closing off from me, he's pulling away...

"Nothing…I…uh…" He saw her face, and gave up. "I'm really happy for you, I am," he said.

"Henry, you're a lousy liar," she said, crossing her arms. "Something's wrong, been wrong for a while. Can't you tell me what it is?"

He sighed.

"I'm not going to let go of it until you tell me," she said. "I'm worried about you. Whatever this is, I don't want it coming between us."

"That's just it," he said flatly. "I was just hoping that we would have a little longer before…"

Her heart dropped to her knees.

"Before what?"

He leaned back against the bathroom door frame.

"Eileen, I'm…" He turned his face away as he struggled for words.

"I'm afraid that you won't want this any more."

Eileen's jaw dropped open. Henry continued.

"You're not going to need me any more to…to be with you. You can put it all behind you and move on, like we never met and it never happened. None of it. I've been…" He bit his lip.

Eileen stood, stone-still, and let him talk.

"You keep telling me how I saved your life in there, and how much you owe me. I don't want that, Eileen. You don't owe me anything. If you hadn't... I don't want you to think that you owe me a single thing. I've been so…"

She was too stunned to move.

Henry walked to her, and tipped her face up to his. His eyes were filled with love and sorrow.

"I want you to be free. You don't owe me anything. I don't want you to feel that obligation."

He dropped his hand, and for a moment they stood still, looking at each other. Then feeling returned, and Eileen found her voice.

"Henry...David...Townshend," she said, low.

He took a step backward.

"How could you ever think…what gave you any right to…do you really think I would…" She was almost too angry to speak. She took a deep breath, and stared him in the eye.

"You're wrong, Henry. You're so wrong. I do owe you. I owe you everything. I owe you my life. I owe you every minute of every day that I have now. I have no hope of ever repaying that debt, and I have no idea how I'd even start trying.

"But that's not why I'm here. I'm not here because I think I can make it up to you by being here for you, with you. I'm not here because I have nowhere else to go. I'm not here because I think you need to be taken care of, even. I'm here because I WANT TO BE."

Henry was back against the doorjamb, looking at her wide-eyed. Eileen stalked right up to him. He's scared now, she thought. Good.

"I love you, you moron. I love you for you. I don't know why you are too stubborn or whatever to see that, but it's right there under that big nose of yours if you'd just look for it. How could you think that I'd…that I'd SELL myself like that?"

Horror dawned on his face. Eileen had gotten her second wind, and was yelling loudly now.

"How could you think that I'd do that? That I'd give up everything and live a lie because I thought I owed you something? Do you really think I would? If you do, then I'm not the person you thought I was, and you're definitely not the man I thought you were."

She stepped back, shaking. There. She'd said it, and there was no un-saying it. It hung in the air between them like a knife.

"God, no…I hadn't realized…" he said, and put his hands to his face. He ran them back through his hair. "No, Eileen…no, I'd never think that…oh God…I'm so, so sorry…"

He moved toward her, but stopped himself. He hesitated a moment, breathed deeply, and met her eyes.

They stared at each other helplessly.

"I love you, Henry," she said simply.

"And I love you."

It sounded strange to hear him say that.

"That's why this hurts so much."

"Yeah."

They stood for a few moments in silence.

"Is my nose that big?"

"Not really. It just looks that way from some angles."

"Oh. OK."

More silence.

"We can't talk about this now," he finally said.

She nodded. "I know. Not yet."

"I'm going to finish the laundry, then I'll stay out of your way." He bent to pick up the pile of towels on the floor, and went down the stairs to the laundry room. Eileen reached after him, but her hand faltered, and she stood there watching him as he moved out of her sight.

That evening, Henry buried himself in his darkroom, while Eileen curled up in her favorite chair in the living room with a good book and a large pot of tea. Rain was falling steadily, shrouding the little townhouse in silence.

She had trouble concentrating on her reading, though. After a while, she put the book down and switched on the TV. She turned to a favorite crime drama. It was a rerun, which was just as well considering that she wasn't really paying attention.

It's been a month, she thought. A whole month since we got out of South Ashfield Heights and started over here. Almost a month since he kissed me for the first time. Not a long time overall, but a long time in a relationship...and for this whole month, he thought I was just…playing along because I owe him my life? Did he really think that, all the time we were…all this time? This is real, for me. Why can't he see that?

Or, does he think that that's what he should get? What he deserves? For saving me from becoming Walter's "Holy Mother"? My eternal gratitude, like this? Does he really? I can't say that he'd be wrong.

No…I can't see that in him. Perhaps I don't know him as well as I thought, but I just can't see him doing that. He doesn't seem like the type. I've been wrong before about guys, but it just doesn't fit Henry. He's never said or done anything that could remotely imply that. He treats me like a queen. Every time I bring it up, he looks very uncomfortable, like he doesn't want to talk about it.

I don't know. I just don't know…

The doorbell rang. It took Eileen a little while to register the sound, since their doorbell had never rung before. She got up and went to the door.

As she moved her head to the peephole, a memory floated through her mind. Henry had told her of the hauntings he'd seen in 302 whenever he returned during their trip through hell. There had been rattling windows, ghosts coming through the walls, blood running from his faucet ... but the worst was when he'd seen blood dripping from his peephole. When he looked through, he'd seen his own ghost, still in his shirt, with "21/21" carved into his flesh, and blood everywhere. The thing that wasn't Henry stood with its head back, dead eyes almost hidden by its hair, twitching and causing him so much pain by its mere presence…her blood had run cold when he'd told her about that.

So, when she looked through, she wasn't about to be surprised by whatever stared back. However, she wasn't expecting to see the dripping-wet face of Detective Orosco.

He'd been the friendly cop who had questioned her and Henry the day after. What surprised her the most was that he'd been understanding and completely accepting of what they'd told him. Anyone else would have thought they were crazy, but John Orosco had believed them…that had been such a relief. That day, he'd been comforting, open, and willing to listen, a friendly face in a sea of reporters shoving microphones at them and cops with odd looks on their faces.

Tonight was different. Orosco looked as though he'd seen a ghost. And when he stood back from the peephole, she saw why.

An equally soaked Frank Sunderland was standing there with him.