Natara returned to her old hotel that day, right after she had her argument with Ken. After they had all stood as if frozen together, when she had felt like a stupid child from being comforted by the others. They had worked continuously on the case, and later Natara called and rented a room at the same long term hotel room she had before she left. She called a taxi and drug all the luggage she had brought out to it, then headed to the hotel. After getting her key and entering the room, she saw a strange silver glimmer on her bag. She looked, seeing it was a silver white-house in miniature. It words D.C. written across the keychain made her rub her finger over the rough surfaces if she were blind and trying to read the letters. She took it off the bag, keeping it warm in her palm as she went to bed. She squeezed the metal until it hurt and marks formed on her hand. She suddenly sat up in the dark, and whispered to the metal as if could hear her. "I just wanted something, anything in my life that's permanent. Something that can't be taken away. Is that so much to ask?". Silence. In anger she threw the keychain on the ground, frustration from their minimal findings in the case flooding in. She let her eyes close, knowing what she did was crazy. But saying it lessened the weight in her chest, so for once she could actually breathe. Before she fell asleep, she got out of bed and searched for the keychain in the dark. She found it, and kept in in the palm of her hand as a security object. Like a talisman of hope that she would hold tight forever, that she would never let anyone take it away. As she closed her eyes, she remembered how horrible her first week on D.C. had been. How Shawn's ghost had followed her, where rumors spread about his death. How she constantly turned to tell Mal something. How she woke up every day that week, thinking she was back in San Francisco. In the few minutes before she fell asleep, she unconsciously let her hand curl close to her body. Drawing her talisman of hope closer to her beating heart.