Chapter Summary: The prelude to a possible sequel.

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February 2036

One Year Before the Events of the DLC

Rosemary Winters

Rosemary Winters stepped off of the bus with a bundle of white Carnations cradled in her arm. There was something so tranquil about cemeteries but maybe that was because the cemetery was the only place where she could spend time with her father.

The bus grumbled as it rolled away, carrying with it the two strangers that had provided the only form of companionship during the long ride. Rose had felt a strange sense of sentimentality rise within her as she watched the mother read a fairy tale book to her young daughter.

Do you think the little boy will be able to touch the moon?

Nobody can touch the moon! It's too far away.

What if he has a rocket shit?

Uh, okay! Then he could touch it but it would be very, very cold.

It was heartwarming to know that the world could still be like that: warm and plain, loving and forgiving. These were not the traits of her own personal world but at least she could still bear witness to the good that there was left to offer.

Her scruffed Nike shoes carried her along the stamped dirt path that she knew so well. The Rowspine Cemetery had been lit by the pale gold hue of sunlight eclipsed occasionally by the shadow of a bird or dark silhouettes of tree branches swaying above her. Some of the girls at her school had fallen into the trend of taking gloomy Instagram cemetery photos to showcase their darker aesthetics. Rose hadn't been able to repress the rage that built up within her every time that she saw them standing upon a grave marker in their heavy Demonias, their lace trim dresses flushed behind them and expressions set in a picture-perfect snapshot of mourning. She didn't know what she would do if she found them posing like that in her father's cemetery. In the end, she decided that it was best not to think about that.

She stopped before a simple marker and smiled. There was a chill in the air that was at odds with the clarity of the day. It felt as if it was rising through her, coating her bones in frost and drawing white air from between her clenched teeth. The hackles upon her neck rose and she glanced around surreptitiously. There was no one there and yet she felt as if someone was watching her. Another wannabe influencer taking selfies behind the trees, she thought to herself as she placed the Carnations upon her father's marker and forced herself to smile. There were several heavy glass jars arranged in a cluster around Ethan's marker. Moonshine bottles, according to the labels. Someone else had been visiting her father's grave. And they had come recently, judging by the newest jar that had been set further away from the others. Rose didn't mind the contributions of the mysterious visitor. It was heartwarming to know that there was somebody else in the world who cared about Ethan as much as she and her mother did.

"Hey, dad. Happy birthday," she whispered. The chill spidered along her skin once again and she rubbed anxiously at the back of her neck. "Sorry I missed last week. I have a lot of tests coming up. You know how it is."

What else was a daughter supposed to say to a father whom she had never met? She felt that there was so much that she was supposed to say. But at some point, it always began to feel as if she was talking to herself. Her father was there but he was not present. She could not ask him about his day or seek advice for the troubles that she was having at school. The cemetery posts on Instagram hadn't troubled her as much as the posts where the students in her school posed beside their fathers on birthdays and anniversaries and other celebratory events. And then there had been the comments from Lucy, Catherine, and Jimmy.

Your dad is, like, dead, right?

Aw, it probably sucked growing up without him.

At least you turned out kind of okay!

No offense, Rose, but I would totally kill myself if my dad ever died.

Stop it, guys. Look at her. She's about to start crying again!

Rose swiped the back of her hand beneath her eyes and exhaled heavily. It was becoming harder and harder to block out the intrusive thoughts garnered by all of the bullyings. She couldn't escape them - not in her room, not at the skate park at night, not even at her own father's grave. There was only one thing that calmed her when her anger reached its boiling point. She reached beneath her collar and pulled out the golden cross pendant that hung from her neck. She wasn't religious: the cross pendant was a gift that had been given to her when she was an infant, according to Mia. But her mother had never specified who the cross had come from.

"I have a feeling that this wasn't yours," she said as she swung the cross above her father's grave. "But what about this one?"

She dug around in her pocket until she found the small, antique recorder: yet another gift bestowed upon her soon after birth. It was made mostly of plastic and yet it was surprisingly sturdy. She had searched for its model online and had been surprised to find that it had been manufactured in the 1950s. No more of its kind have been made since then, and it had been a pain to track down a charger that was compatible with it. She could have sold it on eBay for a much-needed seventy-five dollars. But there was a message on the recorder that she had listened to repeatedly for sixteen years. The voice in the tiny machine was strange - jarringly deep and almost comically emphatic - and yet it was comforting. She knew the man's every word by heart.

The wind rustled along the trees as she clicked the side of the recorder and then placed it on Ethan's marker. There was a crackle of static followed by a deep sigh. And then the man began to speak. She closed her eyes and mouthed the words along with him.

"Ah! Rose-mary Win-ters. If you've found this recorder it means that I'm no longer here. On this earth, I mean. Such a shame that we never got a chance to meet. B-believe it or not, I was good friends with you father - 'a force to be reckoned with,' as you Americans are fond of saying. Ha! If you are anything like him then I fear for all who try to tread upon your path, truly. You've got fight, you Wintereses, and gusto! Don't forget that! Your father died protecting you. And if I am truly dead then just know, Rose, I died protecting you as well. Y-you don't have to pay me back, kid. Just go along and live the life that we fought for you to have. Keep your chin up, doll, and don't hesitate to kick the world in the balls if it gets in your way. La revedere, Rose."

The recorder wound itself to a stop. Rose chuckled as she reached for it again. Google Translate had revealed that la revedere meant 'goodbye' in Romanian. She often wondered who the mysterious Romanian man on the recorder was, and how he knew her father. She had played the tape for Mia and asked what the man had meant when he said that he and Ethan had died for her. In response, Mia had always given her The Look. Do not tread any further into this conversation. I will tell you everything one day.

When it came to a mother, 'One Day' translated easily to 'Never, Not Ever.'

The grumbling of the approaching bus startled her from her reverie. She cursed under her breath as she pocketed the recorder and pendant, and then sprinted across the cemetery. The driver smiled meekly at her as she jogged along the steps and settled into the frontmost seat. She hadn't even realized that she had been in the cemetery for over an hour. Time always felt too short whenever she visited her father's grave. But she would be back in a month or two, she promised herself. This time, she wouldn't let tests get in the way.

She reached into her pocket in search of her earbuds and then froze. The recorder was there but the golden cross pendant was missing. The doors slid shut with a hiss and she realized that it was too late to go back in search of it. The glass pane fogged beneath her breath as she peered out of the window. A man strolled leisurely between the cemetery gates and then came to a stop a few paces away from the bus. She wasn't sure what it was about him that had caught her attention. He was dressed in a flashy ensemble that she had only seen in old-timey pictures of speak-easies and prohibition-era taverns. He kept his head lowered beneath his black Panama hat as he lifted his hand into the sunlight. The golden cross pendant slunk from between his black-gloved fingers and rocked beneath his palm. She jumped from her seat and ran along the walkway as the bus began to move. The mysterious man raised his head as she pressed her nose against the back window. She had seen him before, she knew it.

"Wait!" She called to the driver. But he didn't hear her. The fumes from the bus gusted from the tailpipe, enveloping the stranger as he crooked his hat over his eerie green eyes and turned away.