This smell is familiar. I can't describe it. But, if I had to put a name to it, then I would say that the scent in the air here is what I would imagine the colour green to smell like.

I've haven't been back here in… jeesh when was the last time I was back here? Right after I got married? I can't remember. It's been too long. I smile as the breeze rustles the trees; it's comfortingly familiar. I forgot how much solace this place brought to me when I was a little girl. Coming here after the Arveda tragedy was a like turning a new page in a book. I don't remember specifics because I was too young, but I remember the feeling that I had when I stumbled off that shuttle all those years ago.

I take his hand as we leave the station. It's dusk and the planet is bathed in a dim haze. It looks the same and, like I was programmed, I automatically remember the route to Nana's cottage. Our feet indent the green grass as the breeze rustles my hair. Stray strands are blown over my nose, tickling my face before I vainly push them aside.

"Beverly Howard?" I hear before I see a tall, lanky man running toward us. I don't recognize him; I don't think I've met him. How does he know my name? "Beverly Howard?" He repeats, catching up with us and coming to a halt.

"Yes?" I inquire, pushing more stray strands away as the wind picks up.

His face is somber, "I'm sorry, Miss. Howard, but you're grandmother, she, well she-"

My cheeks flush and tears build in my eyes before spilling over. I make no effort to wipe them away. Let them leave their stains. I deserve to feel every wet inch of their trail. I never said goodbye. I haven't been there for this wonderful woman who raised me and loved me. Damn you, Beverly. Damn you. My left hand is gripped tighter as I'm pulled into a strong embrace and I allow myself to be racked by sobs.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Howard," the strange man's voice repeats. I feel another hand come to rest on my back, "would you like to go to her house? The mayor's arranged for her wake tomorrow, but she's left some things for you and you can stay in the house while you're here."

I don't really hear what he's saying. I know he's speaking, but the words don't register. I feel Jean Luc's head nod against mine as he guides me to walk. I hear a conversation between the two men, but I like I said, I don't really hear what's being said. I'm too damn ashamed of myself and saddened by what's happened.

The house looks the same; nothing's changed. The same camellias lay undisturbed outside the perimeters of the old home. Their same smell colours the air; that's the smell that I associate Nana and Caldos. My hand lingers on the old doorknob, feeling it's intricate detail, before I manipulate it and grant myself entry into what I once considered my home. A hand leaves my own as he moves to put down the bags.

The inside of the home looks undisturbed. Herbs and flowers that Nana would use to fix old remedies still hang drying over the doorway. It's dark for a few moments before Jean Luc illuminates the room with the flick of a wall switch. More tears come as I look over to the dining room table, still decorated with a bouquet of pink camellias and baby's breath – presumably the last arrangement Nana ever made.

The finality of her death once again strikes me when I look over and see the fireplace lie dormant. Nana always kept a fire lit. She had a sort of fascination with it, I remember; even when she retired to bed, she always kept some sort of fire with her in the form of that candle. I walk over to her chair in front of the still hearth. Books are piled on either side. Some books I recognize; they're old medical textbooks that she's had for years. But then, there are a myriad of books without titles. Recognition dawns; they're Nana's journals. She always kept a journal. I recall once picking one up, only to be chastened and told never, ever to read them. From then on, she kept them hidden away in her room. I never went near one again after that incident when I was a young girl. But now, none of them are hidden. They're exposed – anyone could read them. I pick one up and thumb through it. I feel like I shouldn't be touching it; they're something sacred and for her eyes only. With that in mind, I relinquish my hold on it, laying it next to an inactivated padd.

"Beverly," he whispers, kneeling next to me. "It's late, do you want to get some sleep before tomorrow?"

I must still be crying because before I answer a soft thumb wipes away another stray tear. I nod my head, "yes". I look up to the small staircase and take his hand in mine. "It's a small bed," I halfheartedly chuckle.

"We'll make due." He says softly as I lead him up the rickety antique stairs.

/

Despite all the 'sleep' that I got today during our transit, I'm still exhausted. I'm emotionally drained and traumatized. I'm too nonchalant to care about properly changing into pajamas so I just shimmy out of my pants and shirt, opting to sleep almost naked. Jean Luc does the same.

It really is a small bed. I look at him, "would you rather us sleep in Nana's bed?"

He shakes his head, "She died there, Beverly."

I almost want to vomit, "Who told you that?" Haunting images of Nana's small, pale form lying dead in her bed haunt me. On one hand, they're comforting; I'm assured that she died peacefully. On the other hand, the images are disturbing and I don't think I'll ever be able to go into her room again without thinking about her death.

He motions for me to lie down. What else am I going to do? I sit on the edge of the bed, looking at him as he lays on the edge of the bed under the musty covers, "that young man who told us of her death; David, he said his name was."

Resigned that I'm not going near Nana's old room, I mold into my husband, "I didn't know…"

"I know," he kisses me before closing his eyes. Within moments I feel his breathing normalize as he holds me against his chest.

I can't sleep. I'm tired, but rest won't come. Finally, after what seems like hours, my eyelids begin to sag.

"Beverly" My eyes shoot open. I just heard my name. "Jean Luc?" No. He's still sleeping. He didn't say it. It wasn't his voice. It was similar – it had that same cadence, but it wasn't as rich. I've watched enough holo movies to know that hearing voices calling one's name is never a good sign.

I wait, hearing nothing. I snuggle closer to the warm, solid form next to me. I'll just go to sleep. It's no big deal; you're just tired. I close my eyes. Perhaps that will encourage me to-

"Beverly…."