The clock showed 2 AM local time and Frank lied wide awake in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come, despite the long flight and time difference. He'd counted all the sheep, chased all the thoughts away, and breathed as deeply as possible – all in vain. The presence of Joe's silent room was utterly disturbing.

Sighing, he sat up, rubbed his throbbing temples and stared out of the window. The winter was unusually cold and the snowflakes danced gently in the street lights. It was a beautiful Christmas time. Joe would have loved it.

Joe again, Frank frowned and almost wished he had stopped thinking about him at all, but the very thought of it scared him.

When someone dies, there are only two things that still connect you to the person – his things and your memories. That's all everyone leaves behind.

Clinging to Joe's things and memories was the worst pain Frank had ever endured in life – no broken bones, brain concussions, wounded flesh or waking up in ICU could ever compete with the ever-lasting heartache. Yet, he found comfort in that pain. After all, pain was the third thing that still connected him to his gone brother.

So why did he fear the presence of Joe's room then? He wondered. More pain was still no pain. With a sinking heart, he rose from the bed and walked to the connecting door. He stood at the entrance for a few moments, breathing heavily and still not daring to come inside.

Just do it. He felt a knife slice his heart when he turned the door knob.

The room was as messy as if Joe had just left it to get a glass of milk. A pile of shirts lay on the chair – he was a fashion guy who didn't go out without matching top and bottom. A pile of text-books were stored under the table, left from the graduation exams. Another two books were on the bedside table – Joe was able to read two books at a time; no arguments that reading them consecutively would give him a better understanding of the stories were ever accepted. Frank went to pick one of them – "A week in December" by Sebastian Faulks – and frowned: the storyline was based in London. The bookmark was placed at page 86.

Frank laid it aside and looked at the last thing that caught his attention: Joe's notebook. Even in the streetlamps from the window he could see a layer of dust upon it. The last time it was used was in July, when Frank searched through it for any clues of crime behind Joe's death.

Curiosity crept inside of him. He switched the computer to life and waited a few minutes before it was ready to work. Frank started Safari and logged into Joe's email account. It didn't feel right, but Joe wouldn't know anyway, right? He was not sure what he wanted to find there, but still studied the subjects of unread messages. There were almost a hundred of them, most of them from people expressing their shock over Joe's death. Some of the messages were spam and the rest came from Joe's subscriptions. Nothing new or unusual.

Except maybe one. Frank opened a message entitled "Your order with Gift4U", dated of the beginning of August.

Dear Mr. Hardy,

We apologize for the delay with your order of June 26th and are happy to inform you that it is now ready for collection.

Sincerely,

Gift4U

Frank frowned. He didn't know anything about any orders, especially dated the fateful June 26th. Joe didn't say he was going to stop anywhere on his way to New York and he never kept his actions in secret from his brother. Unless it was some secret order? Frank glanced at the watch and wished it were morning already, so he could drive up to the store and investigate.

He wasn't sure what he wanted more – to get the mysterious order or to know about the last moments of his brother's life. Frank closed the laptop and swirled in the chair. Curiosity was itching inside of him, pushing the last thoughts of getting some sleep away.

He turned on the lamp and stood up to walk around the room impatiently, wondering what the order could be and coming up with no clues whatsoever. At last, he eased onto Joe's bed with "A week in December" and started to read.

Half an hour later there was a soft knock on the door. Frank raised his hand to see his father glance into the room, "Can't sleep?"

Frank shook his head. "It's nearly eight in the morning in England, but it's impossible."

"So you've decided to lullaby yourself with a book?" Fenton asked with a smile, coming inside to sit next to Frank.

"In a way," Frank agreed and studied the book cover. "It's quite interesting actually, but way too many descriptions."

His father nodded and looked around the room. "I heard the noise from here. Knew it would be you, of course… The silence in this room still feels creepy."

Frank watched him, noting the same sad look in his father's face – the one he had acquainted in the end of June and the one he was trying to hide behind the "I'm strong to cope with my son's death" image. Probably, he was able to convince some people, but not his family.

"How's it been?" Frank asked quietly.

"Tough," Fenton admitted honestly, looking down at his hands. "We- we even thought of maybe selling the house, but…the house is not to blame for him not coming back home anymore, right? It still keeps lots of memories of the two of you. Over time, you just learn to choose the memories that make you smile."

Frank nodded his understanding.

"So we're coping, as best as we can. In our own way."

"Do you… do you ever go back to the case?" Frank asked meekly.

A pained smile touched the father's lips. "Often, Frank. Too often, maybe."

So he was not the only one at peace with it. "You know what still bothers me?" Frank laid the book aside and rubbed his forehead. "He could have died in any of those cases of ours…. How come he died in some stupid car accident?"

If only Fenton knew.

"I miss him like crazy," Frank whispered.

Wordlessly, Fenton circled an arm around his shoulders and welcomed him to lean on him.