Once, as a child, Justin's father explained to him the laws of magic.

"Everything is possible, Justin." Jerry said as Justin sat at attention, listening intently, "Everything is possible, but that doesn't mean everything is allowed. There are laws that tell us how we can and can't use our powers. Without them, there would be complete chaos. Laws are necessary, not to trap or contain us, but to keep us safe."

Justin had nodded, understanding, even at the age of ten.

This memory plays at the edge of Justin's consciousness all night.

Justin sleeps until late afternoon the next day.

He doesn't think he's ever been this exhausted. The weight of the past few days is unbearably heavy upon his shoulders, and it takes him a few minutes to finally crawl out of bed. The sun is shining bright through the curtains of his hotel room, the sounds of the city creeping in, even though he's ten stories high. He peers out the window for a moment, looking down into the streets of his home.

He knows he will never be able to look at this place with fondness again. From now on, this city will be haunted, forever plagued by the ghost of his sister. The thought brings on a fresh wave of agony, and he fights to keep himself together.

Still, the journal calls to him from his bedside table.

Justin decides to spend the day in Central Park, hoping that he can clear his head.

He just needs to get his bearings. Where can he go from here? What can he do?

He's sitting on a bench, watching the birds, trying not to think of anything at all, when she approaches him. She looks exactly the same, except thinner, her clothes not quite so loud. She's more contained, he notes. Her face registers shock, her cheeks pink from either the cold or embarassment, then she opens her mouth to speak, but she can't quite find the words to say.

Justin stares at her, openly, and he can't decide if he's angry or relieved to see her.

"Where were you?" He says, voice shaking.

Harper blinks, stunned, "Justin... I couldn't... Alex, and I, we... God, I'm sorry." She shakes her head, "I'm so sorry."

"What happened, Harper? What happened to her?"

Harper sits down beside him, looks out across the park, "I hadn't spoken to her in months. I had no idea she... Felt that way. I didn't know. The last time I saw her she was fine. Perfectly fine."

Justin laughs bitterly, "No, she wasn't fine. She was never fine, Harper. She just had us all fooled into believing it."

Apparently, the last time Harper saw Alex, she was still parading around in bright colors, spouting off scathing remarks and scraping by with passing grades.

Harper does tell Justin, however, that Alex had begun to slowly withdraw from her. She didn't answer Harper's phone calls, or drop by unexpectedly. Harper chalked it up to the fact that they were growing up and going to different colleges, making new friends. Nothing unusual. Harper said that on the rare occasion that she talked to Alex in the year before her death, Alex rambled on and on about the fun she was having, the people she was meeting. All seemed well.

Justin listens to Harper's explanation, but he soon can't stand it anymore.

"Why weren't you at the funeral?"

Harper swallows hard, turns away from him, runs a hand through her hair.

"I couldn't go, Justin. I just felt so... guilty. How could I face you all when it was my fault? I was her best friend, and I let her slip away. It was my fault!"

"Harper..." Justin begins, but she shakes her head fiercely and stands.

"No, Justin, it was. If I had just... If I had just tried, and not been so wrapped up in myself, then this wouldn't have happened." Harper's openly crying now, tears running down her cheeks, "She would still be here, Justin, if I had just looked a little closer!"

Justin stands to comfort her, even though he really has no idea what to say, but she backs away.

"I'm sorry, Justin. I'm so sorry."

And then she leaves Justin standing in the park, alone and more confused than ever.

Justin spends a couple of hours with his parents at the loft that night, eating pizza and trying not to feel the huge void that rests within their home.

Max is absent, and when Justin asks where he is, Teresa shrugs, eyes glued to the tv, her mind elsewhere. Jerry says he's with friends, or something, but he knows that neither one of them are really concerned.

It's him who calls Max to check on him, and it's him who collects his brother from a bar in Brooklyn when it becomes clear that Max is in no way able to bring himself home.

He sleeps at the loft that night, after hauling Max up the stairs and into his room.

He is blissfully thankful that the journal is across town in his hotel room.

The same memory plagues him in his dreams, fuzzy around the edges and distorted by time.