A/N I didn't put an Author's Note into either of the last chapters, I forgot, I'm sorry! This is my first fanfiction ever. So please don't yell at me if it gets a little inconsistent with the original story I am a rookie, after all. Oh, and I would like to thank QueenRexKenobi124 for reviewing. You're awesome! *thumbs up* :D I never realized how awesome it feels to have someone you don't know positively review your work until it actually happened to me. So, please, REVIEW and make me happy

Two years later

1921

I was sixteen now.

Our family had moved to the reportedly rainiest place in the United States, Mobile, Alabama. Sunlight was a rare occurrence here, as rare as the possibility of Edward coming back from the dead. Speaking of which, the weather did nothing to comfort me.

We had located my father's old house upon arriving. He had never gone back to Alabama after he had met my mother through Uncle John. Therefore, we had no idea where it was or what it looked like. We had never even met the current owners, despite their being family. Gregory Windham, Father's second cousin, and his wife, Rebecca. They had two children, boys, who were both younger than Taylor and I. Uncle John and Father had started living with their father's cousin, Gregory's mother, in the very house in which we now lived, and her husband after their father had drowned while fishing in rough waters in the Gulf of Mexico. Their mother and older sister had died from tuberculosis just a couple years before. He had never spoken to Taylor and I about our paternal grandparents and aunt; we'd received all our information about them from Uncle John.

We had taken a train from Chicago to Mobile, walking the rest of the way. This was bearable due to the fact that we had not brought much, wanting to carry as little of the painful past with us. We had found the house by asking locals, many of whom who were familiar with our cousins. Luckily, we had brought umbrellas with us, because it rained the entire time. For me, it symbolized the tears that I wanted to shed. For leaving my home. For leaving Father, my aunt and uncle, and my cousin. But I couldn't. The only reason I had agreed to the move was to forget, to distract myself. For I knew that if I ever dwelled on my losses for too long, I would go into a place where nobody could ever drag me out. The dream was only the beginning. So I figured, the only way to avoid thinking about it was to remove myself from the situation, from all the triggers. From all the memories.

Eventually, we found ourselves gazing at a white medium-sized house with red window shutters, quite average, with "Windham" painted on to the freshly painted mailbox. Taking one last look at each other, what was left of our family, knowing that our lives would never be the same after this single irreversible move, we stepped up to the front door, and Mother, her hand shaking, knocked on it three times.

Gregory Windham was seated at the table, reading the morning paper. His wife, Rebecca, was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for them, as well as for their two children, Francis and Harry, who were sitting across from their father, fighting over a toy. Gregory was about to turn the page, when he heard a knock at the door. Three, in fact. The first one was timid; he could just barely make it out. The second one was less quiet. The third knock was the most distinct, confident and loud.

Harry leaped from his seat, making his way to the door, eager. Francis, being the shadowing little brother that he was, followed him. They were a few feet from the door when Gregory ordered, "Stop!" They halted and turned around, clearly impatient with their father. Rebecca came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Who could be coming here at breakfast time?" She wondered aloud, without trying to hide her annoyance.

"Somebody with something important to say, no doubt." Gregory walked over to the door and opened it. The boys peered curiously around his legs.

There stood three people, a mother and her two children, it seemed. They were all holding suitcases, two for each person. The woman had reddish-brown hair. She was no more than, say, thirty-five or forty. The lines on her forehead, especially the ones between her forehead, and her demeanor, of someone who had been through much in their life, made her seem older. She also looked tired, very, very tired. The children, or rather, teenagers, a boy and a girl, were obviously twins. They shared almost all the same physical features: straight jet-black hair, angular noses, high-set eyebrows, almond-shaped eyes, and oval faces. The only physical difference between them, besides the obvious one, was their eye colors. The girl had hazel eyes flecked with green, and the boy's were bluish-green. The boy's eyes reminded Gregory of the sea. Both pairs twinkled like stars shining from unusual skies. Their facial expressions were also very different. The girl had a straight face; not a single emotion showed. If it were not for her lively eyes, she may as well been dead. The boy, however, was grinning at Francis and Harry, and his smile put them at ease. They began talking all at once.

"Who are they, Daddy?"

"Where are they from?"

"Do they live in town? How did they get here?"

"Why are they holding suitcases?"

"Are we having a party, Daddy? Is it my birthday?"

"Enough," Gregory said to his sons. Then he looked up at the trio on his doorstep. "Can I help you?" he inquired politely.

The woman spoke. "Actually, you can. How are you, ? I am Anne Masen, and these are my children, Sophia and Taylor." She gestured at each twin respectively. Taylor smiled good-naturedly at Gregory, and made playful faces at the boys when he wasn't looking, making them squeal in delight. Sophia merely nodded. Anne Masen continued, "We came here from Chicago." Then she paused, as if she was waiting for something.

Masen…Chicago…Those words seemed somewhat familiar, although he could not remember where he had heard them before. Anne Masen, encouraged by the look of vague recognition on his face, eagerly said,

"We have never met before, Mr. Windham, but I am sure you are quite familiar with my husband and his brother, both deceased. They were once like brothers to you, too, as I have been told. Tell me, did you ever know anyone by the names of Robert and Edward John Masen?"

Gregory stared at her. These people, whom he had formerly suspected to be beggars, what with the suitcases they were carrying as if they were all they had to their names, were indeed, not beggars. They were not even strangers. This was old Bobby's family. This…was his family.

Mr. and Mrs. Windham welcomed us into their home as if they had known us all their lives. We told them about our situation, and they were sympathetic. They offered us their sincere condolences, and Mr. Windham wistfully related many adventures he had had with Father in their childhood. He also wondered aloud why Father had never come back to Mobile. This we could not answer. Father had always been a mystery. I laughed when I was supposed to, speculated when I was supposed to, and had done everything that was expected of me, in hopes that that would suffice for my mother. Of course, it didn't for Taylor, who, in between playing with the Windhams' little boys, had shot me looks of concern. I had just gritted my teeth, smiled at him, and continued listening to the talk about my father. Listening to it had been more painful than having my eyeballs gouged out with a needle. But I had persevered. Somehow.

The Windhams told us that they would be honored to have us live with them. Mrs. Windham had smiled at me and told me, "It would be good for Francis and Harry to have an older sister to care for them. Lord knows they need one, the little rascals." I hesitated before agreeing a second too late (with what I thought was a passable smile). The last thing I needed at that moment in my life was the burden of two young boys. Taylor seemed to be having fun with them, though.

Over time, that is to say, over the course of two years, I began to love those two boys as if they were indeed my brothers. I stopped seeing them as one person with a shadow, and but as two unique boys with individual personalities. Francis was the outgoing brother, the one who was not afraid to speak his mind and act the way he wanted to act. Harry was more gentleman-like, but somewhat withdrawn. I also grew to love Mrs. Windham, who had a way of being loving in a tough way, and Mr. Windham, who always had his nose buried in his newspaper or book. Even though these people became my family, they could not fill a certain emptiness inside me. I remember once calling Mr. Windham "Uncle John" by accident. When he looked at me questioningly, I realized what I had said, but I could not say anything. I just stared at him, speechless. Then I turned and ran to my room on the second floor. I stayed there and focused all my concentration on drawing things I could see from my window, in vivid detail. I did that for five hours. Before, my passion was writing, but I could not trust myself enough to write.

Francis and Harry were not Edward.

Mrs. Windham was not Aunt Elizabeth.

Mr. Windham was neither Uncle John nor Father.

I loved the Windhams very much. They were my family, but they were not my family.

I now understood why Father had never come back.

Review please!

The next chapter is an important one. And just in case I don't update before then, have a great Memorial Day!