"I don't even know where to start." Jack ran a hand over his head, his shaved hair not moving an inch. In the past, when he ran his hand through his hair, his talented hands vanished beneath long golden locks of untamed hair. Rose listened to him speak, and she watched his mouth move, and she heard every word. It was then she realized that most of the time in life, when people spoke to her, she never really heard much of what they were saying. Not because she was being rude, but because it didn't really matter. It was all just trivial and pointless and meaningless. But right then, in that moment, she had never paid more attention or listened more intently.

At one point Jack stopped talking, smiled quietly, laughed ever so lightly, and then continued. Whether he had noticed how Rose was staring at him in utter adoration, or he too had come to realize how wonderful and fortunate this was, it didn't matter. She didn't even care how stupid she looked as she leaned across the table, leaning on one hand, absorbing every word, savouring the sound, appreciating this God given experience to the fullest.

"When I opened my eyes, I saw this light, and I thought that the stories must have been true, you know? About that white light you see when you get to heaven. But then I thought to myself that surely the light wouldn't hurt your eyes as much as this. And then I thought that if I was dead, I surely wouldn't feel pain."

"Well I would hope not!" Rose laughed a little, and Jack continued.

"Anyway, I started hearing this voice, and it was a man's voice. He was asking if I could hear him. I must have nodded or told him to get that damn light out of my face or something, because all of a sudden I had an arm around me dragging me up into a lifeboat."

Rose's smile faded slightly, and she sat back in her seat. "A lifeboat?"

"Yeah, the only one to come back for survivors. When I got onboard, there were a few other people. I don't remember much about the rest of the morning. I don't even remember getting onto the rescue ship."

"The Carpathia?" Rose asked, in almost a whimper.

"Yeah..." Jack noticed the look on her face, and all at once it hit him. He dropped back into his chair, his eyes wide, and his mouth open. "How did I not think of this until now? How didn't I realize that yesterday?"

"I'm asking myself the same thing... So we were-"

"On the same lifeboat?" Jack finished her sentence. It came out as a question, but no answer was needed. They had been only a couple of meters apart, and they had no idea.

Rose had her hands clasped over her mouth in shock and confusion, wondering how they could have missed one another. "The Carpathia gathered a list of names. I didn't know what to expect every time I looked. I didn't think your name would just magically appear, but I couldn't accept that you were dead. Your name wasn't on it. I checked so many times."

"I was knocked out for the journey to New York. I was practically dead. I woke up the morning we got there, and when the ship docked I was one of the first to slip off. I didn't really want to be on a ship any longer than I had to. The room reminded me of the cabin I had on, well, you know, and I guess I kinda started panicking." Rose saw a look in his eyes just before they darted away from her and looked down to the warm cobbles. "I just ran off. I took a little bottle of whisky for my troubles and I just ran. I guess you could say I haven't stopped running ever since." He looked up at her then and laughed slightly, but only slightly. Rose reached a hand across the table and took his. She could see a pain in him. She remembered when she was the broken one.

As they sat there for a moment, holding hands across the table, there was a feeling that they hadn't felt in a long time. They felt like teenagers again. There was a flash of feeling, and then Rose pulled her hand away, not so quick as to make a scene, but just in time before she forgot who she was now.

She composed herself somewhat and continued. "So they never even got your name?"

Jack shook his head. "Nope... but at least they would have known I was recovered when they saw me running down that gangway and onto the pier!" Jack laughed, his smile returning. Then, an odd thought crossed his mind, and he asked, "So where did all you survivors sleep?"

"Well, whilst some had their own bedrooms," she glared at him jokingly, "The rest of us slept on the floor in the mess hall. It was warm enough, and more comfortable than being in the middle of the ocean on a chunk of wall..." She trailed off, her eyes wondering onto something in the distance, something in the past. "Hearing the crying at night, and the praying. Wives who had lost husbands, sons, brothers... one boy was only 14, yet was considered a man?" Rose looked down, a blonde strand falling out of place and shadowing her face. "It was a long journey home... I don't know if I ever truly made it home."

Jack reached across the table, softly placed the hair behind Rose's ear, and lifted her head up by placing a finger under her chin. She opened her teary eyes. She had never spoke of it until now. Not to anyone. Not even her husband. She looked at Jack. He looked so strong and mature and grown now. She felt even more safe with him here and now than she did all those years ago. Except these days, she had nothing to be rescued from. She had everything she could have ever wanted, or at least that's what she used to think. Now that Jack was alive and well, she really did have it all.

"It's a miracle Rose, you know that?" Jack said, his eyes meeting hers. "God can't answer everyone's prayers, but he answered ours, and I'm thankful for that Rose. I'm thankful." He moved his hand from her chin to her cheek, and he stroked it affectionately. Rose took his hand, gripping it.

"Your hands feel different." She giggled, swallowing the lump in her throat. "They used to be so soft."

"Well back then I had never really done a day's work in my life. Not a true days work. These hands have worked hard since then!"

"You still sketch I see." Rose smiled, signalling to the pad and pencil he had sat with at the fountain. "My husband collects various pieces and hangs them in his study. He says the talent of those hands inspires him with his writing." She leaned in towards him, and said softly, as if Richard may hear and be offended. "But I'm still to meet a 16 year old with the talent you possessed... most of the drawings he purchased aren't nearly as good as your work."

Jack grinned widely, his handsome, middle aged and weather beaten face creased with lines of life. "I've improved a lot since then. Had plenty time to practice."

Rose signalled to his sketchbook with her hand and asked politely "May I?"

Jack nodded "Sure." And sliding the book over the table towards her, he added "You won't see much in the way of naked women in there. Not these days."

Rose laughed aloud and opened the book, fingering carefully through the pages, absorbing every stroke of the pencil and every smudge from his artistic hands. "Did you ever make any money from it since we last saw one another?"

Jack leaned back in his chair. "Well... what I drew kind of changed since 1912... Not exactly a lot of stuff people wanna buy."

Rose looked up at him, perplexed, and then she shifted her attention back to the sketchpad. The most recent pages were sketches of the beautiful island, sketches of his fellow soldiers, the lonely, shaded chair outside the Greek café. The amount of detail is immense. You can almost hear the male unison of laughter looking at the shaven headed soldiers on the paper. One page is a study of waves, the way they roll onto the sand and crash against rocks. They are very rushed and almost expressionistic, trying to capture a fleeting moment of life before it crashes and fades forever. Then, further in, she finds pages that are totally different, almost hard to look at. One page is entirely shaded in black; the next page is the same, and the page after that, and the page after that, and so on and so forth, until eventually she comes across a landscape. A backdrop of mountains, almost masked by smoke and flames. The field in the foreground is littered with corpses of men, mangled amongst piles of metal, blown apart. She spots several drops of what looks like blood on the top of the page. She carefully closes the sketchpad and hands it back to him, processing what she had just seen.

He takes it back, and rather than feel ashamed or embarrassed, he feels a sense of relief. Relief that he has let someone see just a glimpse of what his mind, and no doubt every soldiers mind, is like.

Rose looks up at him. Jack meets her gaze, tears welling in his eyes. Without saying a word, Rose rises up from her chair, and with no hesitation, she goes around the table and onto her knees in front of him, wrapping her arms around Jack. He allows his head to fall onto her shoulder, and almost instantly, he breaks into uncontrollable sobs.

"Don't hold it in any longer. Let it all out." She strokes his hair as his sobs echo through the town square. Some people look on in confusion, assuming he's drunk, not knowing how damaged Jack Dawson has become. "I'm here for you Jack, I'm here. I won't leave you again."

Jack sits up momentarily, his breath quivering, his eyes red and his face wet. "You promise? You gotta promise, Rose." He can barely speak.

Rose grabs his face with both hands and presses her forehead against his. She could see last night that Jack was different, only now since seeing his drawings does she know why. But he was still Jack, and he always would be. She had him back in her life by the grace of God, and she wouldn't ever let go again. "I promise, Jack. I promise."