Murphy was staring at the writing on his wall. Besides what Grey had left there the only other "decoration" was a smudged signature of Murphy's name. Every time he saw the words "Where thou art, that is home," it made him feel an odd mixture of anger and hope. Anger, because every place Murphy was supposed to call home turned into a new kind of hell. And hope, because maybe this home wouldn't be.

What bemused Murphy the most was why Grey had written it there at all. It was clearly an attempt at kindness and generosity, but who in their right mind would be kind to Murphy? He thought she couldn't have known who he was, and hoped to avoid her so she never had to find out.

Since coming to the ground John realized that he was destined to walk this earth alone; it was the only way to protect himself and those who surrounded him.

But wherever he turned Grey always seemed to be, whether she was lingering in the common area or sitting in her room with her door ajar, she was always in the corner of Murphy's eye. The excitement she enticed in him truly bothered Murphy. He didn't like it when his emotions got hopeful like that, so he tried his best to push Grey into the back of his thoughts.

But Grey wasn't the kind of person to be stuck in the background.

One evening at dinner, Murphy was sitting in his usual place at the end of some table, two or three seats removed from the nearest person, when Grey appeared across from him.

He looked up from his stew momentarily to catch a glimpse of her intriguing brown eyes, and then sneered without looking at her, "What the hell do you want?"

"Damn, no wonder no one sits next you," she replied, unfazed by Murphy's rudeness. They stared at each other for a few moments, as if waiting for the other to speak.

Grey broke the silence to answer Murphy's question, "You always sit by yourself, and I usually sit by assholes so moving to keep you company didn't seem that bad of an option."

"You clearly don't know me very well," Murphy sighed while keeping his eyes fixated on Grey's fingers as they tapped delicately on the metal table, "I'm probably the biggest ass here, and I don't need any company."

Murphy finally looked up to meet Grey's sad expression.

"Everyone needs someone," Grey explained, "what's the point of everything if you're alone?"

The question seemed rhetorical as Grey muttered it, and by examining her expression Murphy could tell that he wasn't the only lonely person in the conversation.

"Exactly," Murphy smirked, "there isn't one," he grabbed his tray as he stood but Grey's glare stopped him.

"Leave I don't care," she said, "but don't waste your meal, I actually put some effort into that."

"You work in food prep?" Murphy asked while sitting back down and scooping some more stew into his spoon.

"Sadly," Grey sighed, "the other guys who work there are the biggest assholes around."

Murphy raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Well that guy," she continued, gesturing to a redheaded server, "is such a perv. He won't stop staring at me and grabbing my ass, it's so annoying. And whenever I complain about it, the Manager takes his word over mine. So I'm just the lying slut I guess. One day I'm gonna float him, I swear," Grey laughed at herself and Murphy let a smile pass over his otherwise emotionless façade.

"What makes you such a bad guy? Besides being such a smart ass all the time?" Grey asked.

"Like you don't already know," Murphy sassed. Grey did know, but she wanted to hear it from him. She was a firm believer in two sided stories. She decided to play dumb this time, and upon seeing her expression Murphy said, "Seriously? Well, I sort of killed some people, and tried to kill some others."

He was trying hard to remain emotionless but his face appeared sorrowful, maybe even ashamed.

"Why?" Was Grey's only response.

Murphy was shocked she didn't express any hatred or disgust, but he didn't dare go on, so he just stared down at his stew.

"It doesn't matter," Murphy muttered as he stood, "good stew by the way."

Before Grey could say anything further Murphy was walking out of the canteen and back to his solitude. He slammed the door behind him and rested his forehead on the cold metal wall, replaying the conversation in his mind.

Staring at the black writing on his wall he had to wonder, why did Grey care at all?

Grey devoted a few minutes every night to pleasant memories before she succumbed to her dreams. She had gotten into bed quite late, as usual, and was now comparing the specks on the ceiling to the one's on the face of the only boy she ever loved.

The dust in the air was thicker than usual as Grey slammed open a large Shakespeare Anthology. Yellow lights filled the cloister with a warmth that Grey could find nowhere else, and the heat seemed to expand into Grey's stomach as Jonah walked into to the small storage room.

Their teacher student relationship had grown to something more since he gave her the job of filing and organizing ancient novels. Actually, they had become quite close friends. Maybe too close, Grey thought sometimes. She had an affinity for him that she shared with no one else. And she couldn't deny it as he knelt down beside her, his freckled cheeks blushing as he smiled.

"That's my favorite," he said, pointing to a sonnet that Grey had never read.

"What is love? Tis not hereafter," he began to recite it while he reclined against a box of books. Grey didn't hear the rest of the poem for she was completely engrossed in the flicker of his eyes and the movement of his lips as he spoke. She knew it was wrong to see him in that way, he was 21 and she was only 15. But Grey of all people knew that love knew no bounds, especially when it came to age. She'd read plenty of 19th century romance novels to know age wasn't that important, at least back then it wasn't.

"Grey?" He said, looking perplexedly at the smitten girl.

"What?" She said a little too loudly, trying to hide the embarrassment in her expression.

"Do you like the poem?"

"What?" Grey asked as she returned her eyes to the large book on her lap.

"Are you okay? You look kind of red?" Jonah knelt down in front of her and pressed the back of his hand to Grey's forehead.

"You're burning up!" He exclaimed.

"I'm fine," Grey laughed at his worried eyes, but she could feel herself burning as his hand moved down to her cheek.

"You sure?" He asked, caressing his thumb lightly over her skin.

Grey couldn't find the right string of words in her extensive vocabulary to even try to express how she was feeling. Her breathing stifled as Jonah's other hand wrapped around the back of her neck.

In that moment Grey could see every freckle and scar on his cheeks, all the ridges in his irises, even the specks of dust in his eyelashes.

His lips pressed into hers, but it was too quick to hold on to.

"Is this wrong?" Jonah whispered.

"No," Grey whispered, before pulling him back to her.

A pitched scream startled Grey out of her memories, and she quickly threw on her tee shirt and ran to the hall to find the source of the screaming.

There it was again. It was coming from behind Murphy's door.

Grey peered into his room and through the darkness she could hear him panting for lost air.

"What happened?" She exclaimed as she turned on the light, "Are you hurt?"

Murphy was sitting up in his sheets, breathless and covered in sweat.

"I'm fine," he muttered, but the way he was grabbing his neck said otherwise.

"You don't look fine," exclaimed Grey as she knelt down by his bed.

"Just a dream," Murphy said while eying Grey, suddenly aware of her partially naked state.

"Sounded like a nightmare," Grey said, "And yeah, I'm not wearing pants. I thought you were dying or something."

Murphy smirked and pulled the sheets over his bare chest.

"You don't have to wear pants if you don't want to,"

"Shut up," Grey laughed for a moment before returning to her senses.

"But seriously Murphy, what's up? I heard you've been doing this a lot."

"I just see it sometimes," he muttered, his eyes fixated on something beyond the metal walls, "All the pain. The bodies sprawled on the ground," he paused, his words seemingly more difficult than he anticipated.

"Grounders, sky people, they're all the same when they're lying lifeless on the dirt. There are always people screaming, people I thought were my friends. There rejoicing as they tie it around my neck and-," he can barely speak now, and he's rubbing his forehead in aggravation.

"Those are memories aren't they?" Grey realized.

Murphy remained panting, hiding his face behind a mess of dark hair.

"That's horrible, truly it is," Grey moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

"No one deserves that, I'm really sorry," Grey finished. Part of her wanted to wrap her arms around the poor boy but she knew he wouldn't react well to that.

"They did it because they thought I was a killer," Murphy finally looked up, "And now I actually am… I guess they were a little early," Murphy smirked.

"So that's why you killed those guys," asked Grey, "Out of revenge?"

"Yeah," Murphy grimaced, "I watched them as they put the noose around my neck and I watched them as they died, but it didn't make the pain go away. Now I see them everywhere. In my dreams… even in the creases in my hands… There's no way out."

Grey placed her hand on top of Murphy's, it was warm against his skin and he stared at it for a whole minute trying to determine whether it was just his imagination. He finally looked up and asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I feel for you, Murphy."

"Other people are suffering," Murphy said as he pulled his hand back from Grey, "There are more important people to help, people who haven't done bad things."

"We've all done bad things, and we're all suffering," Grey replied, "But seeing someone suffer and doing nothing about it is the worst thing you can do."

Murphy just stared at her, watching her brown eyes flicker from her hands and back to him.

"What I do every night is I think of my happiest memory, and I hold onto it for those few languid minutes before I fall asleep," Grey explained

"It works," Grey insisted after seeing Murphy roll his eyes.

"So what's yours?" She asked.

"What's yours?" Murphy retorted.

"Shut up and answer me."

Murphy just laid back down on his bed with his arms behind his head.

"I'm not leaving until you answer," Grey exclaimed.

Murphy looked up at her indignant expression and contemplated saying nothing so she would stay the whole night. He never realized how lonely he was until that moment.

"My 11th birthday," he explained, "Dad came home with a copy of Macbeth, by Shakespeare, and a pen so I could circle my favorite parts."

Grey let a soft smile splay across her lips. Maybe that was why she felt a connection with Murphy, he too had a soft spot for literature and romantics.

"Goodnight Murphy," she said before turning out his light and walking out of the room.

"Goodnight Grey," Murphy said it after she had already left, but he truly meant it.

Murphy slept soundly that night, more peaceful than he ever had before. He didn't haven nightmares for weeks.