Author's Note: The plot has been flowing smoothly so I think it is time for a little interlude... oh, and can anyone name me the person behind this pov or any special symbolism?

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He sighed a small, bare breath, inclining his head slightly to his beautiful wife beside him. She was sleeping soundly, her chest rising and falling with even breaths under the soft silk of sheets. It was too warm out, even at this time between morning an night of stretching darkness. Their rich blankets were packed away for winter days, not the bare beginnings of June. He should be sleeping as soundly as the feminine form beside him—the war ended ten years ago and his life was a dream. But today, when the sun spread out over their home he would see them again and remember...

Part of him never forgot, but the pain and loss was dull an left when he looked at his smiling son or playful daughter and winking wife... he loved them all. His friends, for the most part, had survived the war and they would be coming tomorrow as an anniversary—the end of the war. It should be a day of worldwide celebrating, drunken wizards, slap-happy witches. His wife had once said that he of all people deserved to be celebrating on that day. But every year, for the last ten it was different for their small group.

They would meet tomorrow, and picnic and let the children run by the glistening aspens as the sun turned their pale stalks into haunting phantoms in silent grace. They would talk, catching up as old friends did and enjoy themselves in the heat of the day, feeling the cool of the breeze and he would smell the flower beside him, the sweet taste of food laid out before them, and the strength of Rosmerta's Oak-Matured Mead. But always, they would catch up the each other and the day would remind them. Despite all its beauty, despite the joy in their life, despite the freedom they had won... there had been a cost. And they remembered faces that should be here, that deserved it. And always, it ended with three of them heading back into town to join in the celebration and three of them staying, watching the kids as they spoke reminiscent of the one face that should be here above all.

He didn't mind the talk so much—it took weight off his mind and helped him enjoy the day a bit more. But it always concluded at night and left him with this feeling of continuation. As if death could not be the end of it, something had not stepped forward. And until he managed to climb over his last ivory stair, there would be no moving on—not really, for him.

And so tonight he was up, unable to sleep as he groped for his wand and stumbled out of his room, shutting the door for his sleeping love and casting the spell Lumos in silence. He pattered down the hallway past three bedrooms and three very different doors all made from the same aspen wood. One was painted as part of the mural that covered his daughter's bedroom.

Grass a familiar bright emerald angled up at the bottom in long fronds, getting less detailed as it moved up the door and distanced in the painting, forming rolling hills A clear periwinkle-shaded sky met the looping horizon, traces of yellow the only tell-a-tale signs of the unseen sun. And arching at the top of the door, a great red bird of fantasies was captivated, a long wing stretching across the frame and twisting tail feathers danging down the entire length. The deep crimson on the creature was engulfed in orange flame, tints used to show movement as a single eye could be seen from its crown. A spell allowed the bird to fly around its door from time to time, it made the sky behind it swirl and the grass blow gently as though in a breeze. But always only one eye ever showed. It was blue, of course only to match the background...

He stood for a moment, gazing at the lone phoenix on her door and thinking back to another wall and another phoenix painting... how long ago that had been, and yet it had hardly faded in his mind's inner-most eye. Shaking his head the father carried himself the few feet to his son's entryway.

The entire wood had been dyed navy blue and magical stars glittered around it, writing its occupant's name in different styles.

The name... it had been their dying wish. People he hardly knew but, a friend of a friend in those dark times...

The man had used shaking so now he tried blinking his sorrowful thoughts away and only glanced at the third door, unwritten and unblemished.

Could they, would they all have lived here?

Somehow he thought that even if death had not intervened, that room would have remained empty. Some people...

Turning left the lone waker made his way through the kitchen and quietly slid open the glass door onto the balcony. The architecture was colonial—white, pillared, rimmed. But he didn't care—that had been her thing really. An old-time balcony for a new-time love, such irony. The summer air was chilled by the lack of sun for sever hours now and bit gently into his bare chest and through his light cotton shorts. A dwindling moon shone among a dust-filled sky. Stars winked at him and the long green fields and smaller stone houses glistened in the night light. A few rebellious teens could be heard scurrying around, but other than that it was silent.

The specter took a deep breath of the cool air and felt his tense muscles unclench a little. His mind went numb after a while and eyes shut after staring at the heaven's...

And he remembered.

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