Disclaimer: Twilight and Somewhere in Time are not mine.

A/N: Thanks to everyone for the reviews, favs and alerts. It really says a lot when you take the time to write me a quick review. I really appreciate it.

Enjoy!

Chapter 2: Miss Isabella Swan

EPOV

Who is Isabella Swan? I am becoming obsessed with her portrait. I spend countless hours every day trying, often unsuccessfully, to avoid returning to the little room so I can once again get lost in her eyes. I have every tiny detail memorized. Every eyelash, every freckle, every soft tendril of her hair framing her face, the small curve of her ear, the arch of her brow and the curve of her lips… I need to know more. Taking one last look into her eyes, I pull my keys from my pocket and head out to do some research.

At the large local library I pour through archives searching for her name in dusty old books and tattered magazines. There is precious little to be learned about the personal life of the one time actress. There are clippings and photos of her during her somewhat brief career but not much is found after the announcement of her sudden retirement. There was an outcry from critics and the public alike over her abrupt departure from stage. Her career and popularity was expected to last several decades.

The most informative reference I find reads: 'Isabella Swan: One of the most revered actresses of the American stage. For many years, she was the box office's greatest draw. Under the guidance of her manager, James Meadows, Isabella Swan was the first American actress to create a mystique in the public's eye. She was never seen in public in her later years. Apparently, with an off stage life of absolute seclusion.' It's not much.

Her obituary is short. She had never married and I can't help but notice that she died the same day of my first big concert. It saddens me to think that, on a night I was celebrating my newfound success, the object of my obsession passed in her sleep. Oddly, I find a vague reference to the actress in a book on space and time written by a Dr. Carlisle Cullen.

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It wasn't much to go on but I look up the doctor anyway. I feel very fortunate to learn that Dr. Cullen works at a nearby University. I talk to him briefly over the phone and he says he would be happy to meet with me. I drive all night just to talk with him. Even after the long drive I still have no idea what to say. As I approach the door and knock, I decide to just try my best to not sound obsessed –like a crazy man who drove all night to beg a stranger for any information on an actress he mentioned briefly in a book he wrote over twenty years ago. Right.

I arrive at the Cullen estate a bit early in my haste and am greeted by Dr. Cullen's wife. She shows me into their living room where we will wait for Dr. Cullen to return home. As we make small talk, I notice of a rather amazing scale model of a building that appears to be The Grand Hotel.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Cullen, but isn't this The Grand Hotel?" I ask gesturing to the model.

"Please Edward, call me Esme," she smiles and walks over to the model. "You are right, it is The Grand Hotel. It was a prized possession of a late family friend."

"I happen to be currently staying at The Grand. This is an amazing model." I bend down to get a closer look. "The detail is really something. It looks just like the real thing."

Esme tilted back a piece of the roof over the lobby. I was surprised to see that it was hinged and I could see a brass tumbler of a music box inside. "Here let me play it for you."

I am stunned to hear that it plays her song. The lullaby I have never shared with anyone. "I'm sorry, but what piece is it playing?" I really don't know what to make of all this, but I am certain I wrote this piece.

"I'm not sure," Esme answers. "Our late friend, Ms. Swan, had it specially made over fifty years ago. To my knowledge there is no other like it. Even the melody it plays is one of a kind."

Miss Swan had a music box made of The Grand that plays my lullaby –before I've even written it? What can this mean? Esme doesn't seem to notice my inner turmoil and lifts up a silver picture frame from the mantle and hands it to me.

Her gentle voice drones on in the background. I can't really hear her anymore over the beat of my thundering heart. I can only see the picture. It's the woman who gave me the pocket watch. The one who inspired the lullaby. And she has the same fathomless brown eyes that I have stared into for countless hours in the small museum at The Grand.

The elderly woman is Isabella Swan.

A/N: Please remember to review. I promise to write everyone back and answer any questions you might have. :o)