"The stars burn. You can't quite touch 'em, can you? They burn, burn, burn. Tiny little holes right through Spikey."

The vampire made his way through the alleyway. Drunkenly stumbling around trash cans toppled like boxes, Spike muttered to himself; his own crazy voice more soothing than the reviling buzz of victims tearing through his head.

"Time, time, running out of time. Have to get back home. Quick like a bird."

He paused, sensing something wrong. Subtle, like changing a recipe by adding extra salt. The air reeked of dark changes. Unnatural and erratic. Alarmed, Spike braced himself for danger.

"I hear you, you know. Your skittering little legs. Didn't think I could, did you?"

There- in the corner behind the dumpster- a buzzing.

At first a low hum, Spike's eyes narrowed and he grabbed a nearby bent golf club, sticking out of a soggy cardboard box like a spider leg, and slowly stalked towards the noise. The humming grew louder and morphed into a cacophonous swarm of bees.

Swatting the air around him, Spike crouched ready, club swung behind him like a baseball bat. Slow steps brought him closer to the dumpster. As the buzzing grew, so did his nervousness.

Swallowing loudly, he whispered "Bring it on, luv."

As the last word left his lips, the buzz exploded in a brilliant nebula. Spike lifted his arm to try and shield his eyes as a thousand luminous shards pierced his flesh.

The light was the last thing he saw before blacking out.

"Tara!"

Like a bolt of lightning, Willow shot up in her bed drenched in the warm sticky sweat of nightmares clinging to her flesh.

Pupils dilated, it took her a moment to realize where she was.

England. I'm in England.

But, I felt her. Here, but…not here.

Trying to shake the cocoon of Tara that encased her every time she woke, Willow tried to relax her tense body by following the now mustily familiar landscape of her room at the coven.

A small hum echoed in the back of her sleep-fogged mind, and Willow blinked.

"Willow, this is your room. You'll be expected to arrive at all meals, but otherwise you are free to stay and wander as you wish. Elyse will come and check on you every hour to see if there's anything you require. All right?"

Willow slowly nodded, if only to get Mrs. Hartness to stop talking and leave.

"Good! Then we'll see you shortly for some supper. Enjoy." With a kind smile, Ms. Hartness turned and walked away, her short heels scattering on the wooden floor like beetles.

Left standing on the threshold of her room, Willow forced herself to open the door. She stared emptily at the living quarters in front of her.

Dust particles shimmered in the light that poured in from the large windows opposite the bed. She trailed her fingers lightly over old lacy pillows, a thick frilly beige blanket, before resting on her small suitcase.

Willow pulled a single picture frame from beneath a thin layer of clothes, and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring longingly at the photo in front of her.

Taken the Thanksgiving before Joyce's death, Xander had snapped a picture of Tara and Willow snuggled up together on the couch. Willow had seen him out of the corner of her eye and was about to tell him off, but Tara-darling Tara hadn't even noticed. Staring adoringly at Willow above her, a smug smile of contentment and happiness shone on Tara's face.

Willow traced Tara's grin in a shaky hand before placing the frame next to a small vase of flowers and continuing to unpack. Refolding everything before she placed them into the dresser, Willow mindlessly organized her life into five drawers.

A large wardrobe in the corner of the room suddenly caught her eye. She stood standing in front of it for a long moment. Suddenly, as if mustering up the courage to do so, she opened the doors wide with both arms.

Taking off both her shoes before stepping boldly into the closet, Willow closed the doors firmly behind her, steeped her breathing, and concentrated. Drenched in darkness, brows furrowed, lips tight and hands clenched, Willow faced the back wall and lifted one arm warily. Sifting through several old coats, she held her breath and reached out shakingly.

It seemed like forever that her hand crept forward. On and on she moved - slowly, so slowly- until suddenly, her fingers touched the back of the wardrobe. The rough and gritty grains of the wood mocked her light touch.

…But there was no magic. Not for a witch in a wardrobe in England, not anywhere. The world was just as it had always been: dry, scabbed, and cruel.

Willow had somehow forgotten this, having had buried a tiny part of herself deep. Long before Buffy had come along and whisked her off her feet with danger and purpose, before Cordelia and her cronies had taunted and belittled her into spackled wallpaper, Willow had protected herself.

Submerged beneath the companionship of two young boys, a tiny Willow had hidden the white and shining beauty of her innocent heart away. She knew she would need to keep it safe. In order to lose oneself in books and neglect, one had to take the necessary precautions. The lessons of C.S. Lewis, Roald Dahl, E.B. White, and Tolkien among others had taught her that. She had learned well.

And there it had stayed, already shrink-wrapped and refrigerated for the time the Slayer would come with her friendship and bumps in the night.

At the cold hard touch of the back of the wardrobe, this part of Willow exploded and let loose every moment of pain and anguish in her young life simultaneously. In flashes, her life decomposed.

…a constant key under the doormat

…a skinned knee and sneering faces on the blacktop

…crinkled toilet paper and used wrappers in her locker

…a twenty-dollar bill and a ten-word note taped to the fridge

…two helpless puncture marks in the side of Jesse's neck

…the dark dismal realization of Moloch's deception

…dead fish on a string in the solitude of her bedroom

…the cold steel of betrayal twisting deep at the sight of two naked bodies tangled together underground

…the bitter frustration of Buffy's blind obliviousness and preoccupations when she needed her most

…a warm bench and a blue-eyed blank gaze at the fair ten seconds too late

…Buffy's serene body atop rubble and dust

…screams in the night

…the slinking fear of argument

…brittle herbs

…delicate words

…red sheets

…red shirts

…splotches of red

…red

…red

All Willow could see was warm, sticky red. And in that, something broke.

Sinking brutally to the floor of the wardrobe, a lifetime of empty wasted endless days stared Willow in the face. For the first time since the funeral, Willow cried. Giving in to the abyss that claimed her, a low cry began deep in her bowels. Scratching its way through her lungs and throat, its claws erupted with a terrible and mighty ferocity.

It was terrible and colossal. The floods of Noah were nothing compared to the torrential downpour that ravished Willow.

Shaking, wailing, and hacking sobs on the floor of the wardrobe, somewhere Willow wondered how the tears could feel so hot when her chest felt so cold. Her pulse pounded in her ears as fire poured forth from her eyes and trailed down her face but hissed and evaporated when it ran blindly into the collapsing icy caverns of her breast.

And that was how Ms. Hartness found her charge hours later, throat raw, eyes vacant and unfocused, mouth trembling, with a never-ending barrage of tears streaming down her face.

After Willow's lack of appearance at dinner, Ms. Hartness knocked on her door and saw the wardrobe ajar. She scooped Willow up and rocked her slowly on the floor, whispering chants of 'hush' and crooning old English songs from her childhood.

Hair being stroked softly, Willow brokenly succumbed to sleep with the murmuring of gentle words in her ear.

With a flourish of bed sheets, Willow got up before she could easily persuade herself not to. After throwing some clothes on and washing up, she emerged from her room to be welcomed by a plate of still steaming biscuits, berries, cheese, and juice left on the table. Despite her best wishes, a tiny smile graced her lips, cheeks stretching unused to the action. The smile did not reach her eyes as another useless day loomed ahead of her: tedious and barren.

All right, then. First breakfast, then Giles.