A/N:- Hello, just a heads up, I shall be off for a week and will be back on the 1st May, as we return to the last section of the story (though the finish is not on our doorstop, more like down the street). Please enjoy this chapter, and see you in a week!

The faint chords of the piano slowly brought him from his slumber. They didn't intrude, nor try to rip him awake. No, they caressed him, an old familiar feeling that felt like nostalgia long needed. The song was one that he had played himself perhaps a hundred times, every week, every day, every evening. Even now he could feel the song in his fingers and if a piano was present, he had no doubt he could sit and play with his eyes closed and allow all the memory of that melody to permeate his very soul.

Opening his eyes, he found the source of the music and the memories, saw the figure sitting on a low stool to counter the unnatural height he had grown into. Gerald Ryoushi sat in front of a grand piano that was worth more than any possession he would ever own. He was young, perhaps nine years old, yet as tall as a full-grown adult. His hair was cropped short into a private school cut and he wore a school blazer over a pure white shirt with a tie striped with yellow keeping his collar tight around his neck. There was no crease in his clothes, no mark out of place on the boy. His eyes were closed as Gerald Ryoushi's long fingers moved across the keyboard, conducting the music that came from them.

He walked forward slowly, looking at the boy. From the outside, Gerald Ryoushi was like any rich private school boy. Grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Had never cleaned his own shoes, had never made his own meals, had never washed his own dishes. Yet inside, as he watched Gerald Ryoushi, he knew that within that boy was something fighting to break out from the conformities impeded by those that called them his parents.

A wrong chord cut the air and Gerald Ryoushi's fingers instantly stopped.

"Gerald, this is the fifth time you have missed that chord." The male voice echoed around the empty room, from the shadowed walls. Gerald Ryoushi glanced up from the piano to look at the corner of this ethereal room where the walls never quite met in the corners. "How many more times must you practice?"

"You must ensure perfection for tomorrow's concert, Gerald. You are representing the Ryoushi name. I will not accept anything less than what is expected of you." A female voice said this time.

"As long as it takes, father," Gerald said in a quiet voice. "Yes, mother."

"Again!"

The melody started from the beginning of the piece. Gerald's fingers moved gracefully, each finger participating in creating the piece that had been written by the talented expertise of Makako Ryoushi and Edward Charlton, two names that through sheer hard work and grit had stamped their name on the history of classical music. Their names meant so much to them that even when they were married and even when they had their son, they had kept their respective last names so neither would lose a part of their identity.

For Gerald, they had simply flipped a coin to give him his last name. As he watched Gerald play, he knew that it was this particular act of whimsy that had sparked the ember within his very being. These two people whose names had been so important to them had simply gave Gerald one by chance alone. The question always burned within: How could he live up to the name of his parents, when the name meant nothing but a flip of a coin?

The chord jarred once more.

"Gerald!" The voice seemed slightly different as he watched the scene.

"Yes, Mother."

"Gerald, please!"

"Of course, Mother."

"Wake up!"

He was standing on the side of a road, looking at a low grey wall beside a bus stop within a busy high street. Cars flashed around and even through him as he watched, but he paid it no mind. Over the murmuring of general high street chatter, the revving of cars, the clinging of shop doors, a steady rhythm could be heard, bouncing off each noise in the high street as if it was part of the very essence of the street, rather than playing against it. It was not an invasive noise by any means, but a noise crafted with love and care and knowledge of what kind of music a high street needed.

The boy was fourteen and sat on the grey wall, playing the acoustic guitar with those well-trained fingers that moved just as gracefully on the strings as they did the keys. His hair had grown long, brushing the shoulders of the leather jacket that he wore. The shirt underneath bore the name "Razor's Edge" with the names of the band members emblazoned beneath. One of those names said in jazzed up letters: BRIDGE.

Bridge never looked up even once as he played, ignoring both requests for autographs and the clinging of change in the bucket at his feet. For any other street artist, this attitude would have killed them there and then. For Bridge, it wasn't just an attitude. It was his personality. It was his very being. The attitude of Bridge, up-and-coming superstar, youngest member of Razor's Edge, only fourteen, it was all part of the act that people saw in him. That is what the music world believed – that Bridge simply acted the way he did to make himself unforgettable.

Yet as he watched Bridge play the guitar, he knew that deep within there was no act, no persona. Bridge was Bridge. He despised the normal people as they walked past him. Despised their gawping and grovelling. Yet he loved the way they treated him like a king, put him on a pedestal, praised him like he was some kind of musical god. And if any were to ask Bridge, he would admit that he was that and so much more.

To be a successful musician, you simply needed the praise of the peons. Bridge was a generational genius able to corral the praise despite his attitude and even at so young an age of fourteen years old – an age where most would be thinking about friends and girlfriends and acne and puberty. Bridge had no time for any of that. He could not be the best if he considered himself a child.

"Gerald."

Bridge did not look up as a man in a suit that belonged a million miles away from this high street walked up.

"Gerald."

Again, Bridge ignored the man.

"I will not call you by that ridiculous name, boy."

Bridge glanced up but the music did not stop. In fact, it seemed to grow faster as if echoing the feelings deep within Bridge's being.

"Your mother and I believe that this is enough. You have proved your point. It is time for you to come home." Edward Charlton seemed to be uncomfortable with his polished shoes among the dirt of the pavement. "We understand that you want to pursue more than the piano. Your mother is disappointed but understands your need to expand your repertoire. We have contacted a number of teachers to help you on your way, covering a varying degree of instruments. They are the brightest musical minds from all over the world."

Bridge snorted.

"Gerald Ryoushi, you will listen to me this instant—"

Bridge stood up. At fourteen, he had grown even more. Thin and gangly, he stood a head taller than his father now. There wasn't any anger in Bridge's face, despite that emotion that bubbled deep within, hidden from everyone but the one who watched. There wasn't much on Bridge's face at all as he looked down at his father like he would a fly.

"I am practicing in twenty minutes, Edward. No need for you to crease your suit here."

"Practicing? With that group of rag-tag fools who call themselves a 'band'? You will get nowhere with garage band acts like that." Edward was growing red in the face.

Bridge simply picked up a piece of paper from a pile next to the bucket at his feet and handed one to his father, who took one look of it and the red of his face turned a deep mauve.

"Japan!?" The word sounded like an obscene word in Edward's mouth. "Your mother left for a reason, Gerald, their attitude towards music is simply not what it—"

"Come watch, if you like," Bridge said. "Razor's Edge may have been created in the garage of someone's house, but with my help, they have become known worldwide."

"You're only fourteen, boy!"

"And yet more of a man than you ever will be, Edward. I do not need your blessing. In fact, there isn't anything I desire less than that. Yes, I am fourteen. But I've achieved more than you or Makako ever did and I did it all without your legacy. I do not need your names to be successful. I do not need you at all. I do not have your money. I do not have your house. I do not have your influence. And yet look at me, look at this—" Bridge beckoned around the high street. People were watching him as if he was performing and the attention was fuel to Bridge's fire. "What need have I for walls of marble, when my home is where my music is accepted?"

Yes. Home was not the walls that surrounded him. Home was his music. He realised, as he watched Bridge confront his father, that it had been a long while since he had felt truly at home. A long while since he had thought about his music. He had lost his home the day he lost her.

There was a tug at his arm. He looked to his side and saw the object of his thoughts. She stood there with a sad expression on her face, looking up at him.

"Gerald, please," Lily said. "You need to come back."

"I'm right where I need to be," he said in reply, turning back to the scene. Lily followed his gaze.

"You never liked to live in the past."

"It does not hurt to consider it every now and then."

"Gerald, you're hurt. You're really hurt. This isn't real."

"I know."

"So why don't you wake up?"

He looked to her pleading face again, confused. Why didn't she understand? "I'm not sure I want to."

When he next looked up, the street was gone, Bridge and Edward were gone. The noises of street life were gone. Instead, there was a low, expectant rumbling extending over a massive, empty stage. The sky was open and full of stars. He was surrounded on all sides by stadium walls.

"I know where this is."

He looked down again. "You're still here?"

"I'll always be here."

"You don't want to be stuck with me."

Lily smiled sadly again. "Why not?"

"You can have a life outside of me, Lily."

"I'm not sure I can."

"Why not?" He echoed.

"I'm as real as these dreams, Gerald."

"Then you're very real indeed." He looked backed to the stage. Lights started to grow, brighter and brighter, bursting over the expectant crowd. The murmuring grew quiet. "These aren't dreams. These are memories. And these memories are real. Experience this with me."

"I already have."

"Never at my side." He looked at her again. "Are you telling me you've never wanted to experience a performance with me, rather than watching me?"

Lily's lips quivered. "I've wanted that more than anything. But that's impossible."

"And yet here we are."

"You have to wake up, Gerald, please…"

He shrugged. "I don't understand a lot. I don't understand anything other than the music at my fingers. I don't understand the meaning behind the you that is a ghost. But the you that is a ghost is different from the you of my dreams. Does that make sense?"

"Not really."

"I suppose it doesn't have to. What I'm saying is that whatever is happening elsewhere, here is happening now. You're here. Experience it with me, Lily. See what I see. Experience what I see. Don't just follow me. Be with me. Understand me without simply thinking you know me."

"I don't understand you now. You sound different."

He smiled. "I don't have to be anyone here. This is me. The parts that make me me. I am just an observer of the parts that become me."

"I'm not sure I should be here then," Lily looked uncomfortable.

He put a hand gently against her cheek. "I don't think I would have allowed you to be here if I didn't want you to be here. Now watch the concert with me. I don't think time matters now."

The concert was beyond words. From the moment Bridge had entered the stage amidst kaleidoscopic lights, hair braided with beads of every colour, he captured the audience and never let go. Side by side, he and Lily watched Bridge's performance, experienced every swell of the music, every beat and rhythm, every pulse of that which made Bridge's lifeblood. Yes, there was a band behind him, Razor's Edge, but they were support, the backing track. This wasn't a concert for Razor's Edge. This was a concert for the teenage musical genius that was Bridge.

He and Lily watched silently, taking it all in. Somewhere amongst the dreamscape of this concert, Lily's hand rested lightly in his own, and he found himself gripping it tightly and found her gripping back.

Gone. The lights. The colour. The brightness of the stage. It was all replaced by the darkness of an underground music bar in the bowels of Manchester. It seemed there was a constant permeation of smoke in the air. Men and women coated in piercings and stuck-up mohawks and tattoos across every visual part of their body – of which there was much – sat around this grungy room, all faces turned towards the man on the stage.

Bridge's voice was magical as he sang into the microphone, deep and mystical. Enigmatic. There was no backing track, no vocals to accompany him. It was just Bridge and his voice. This was what made Bridge such a superstar. Guitar, drums, bass, vocal – he could do it all. No matter what he played and how he played it, Bridge would command the attention of all.

"Oh no." She was still beside him, not that it surprised him this time.

"Don't you want to see what I remember of this moment?" He looked at Lily.

"Well, I mean… no?" Lily chuckled and he saw there was red in her cheeks. Not surprising, considering what this memory was.

"Should we let the song finish first?" He suggested. Lily just shrugged and together, both of them oblivious to the fact they were still holding hands, watched as Bridge finished his song to a strong applause. Despite the pleading of encore, encore, encore, Bridge walked off stage behind a grimy perhaps-once-red curtain. "Come on." He pulled Lily along onto the stage and through the curtain itself.

On the other side, Bridge was picking up a bag from the floor as the bar's owner pleaded and begged him to perform again.

"I like to leave them wanting more," Bridge said dryly. "If you keep pestering me I will not come here again."

That was enough to shut the mouth of the owner. He apologised and bustled off, leaving Bridge alone in the corridor. Alone, Bridge let out a long, low sigh and closed his eyes.

"I've changed my mind…" Lily pulled at his hand, but he just held her tightly. "C'mon, don't make me watch this!"

"Holy shit!" The voice echoed in the corridor and the sound of trainers slapping on concrete was heard as a girl practically sprinted in front of Bridge. Bridge slowly opened his eyes. The girl was wearing a t-shirt for Razor's Edge, although all names had been scrubbed out except for Bridge's own. Blonde hair ran down to her shoulders and her bright blue eyes glimmered. "That was just… I can't even… Dude, that was amazing! I had chills! Serious chills!"

Bridge regarded her with cold eyes. He knew that Bridge despised these kind of fan interactions.

"I came here on a whim, y'know, and what kind of fate was it that you were the mystery guest?! I've seen all your stuff dude, from the beginning, and I mean the very beginning! Why did you choose Razor's Edge? Why did you dump them? What was it like performing in Tokyo? Why did you change your name from Gerald—"

In an instant, Bridge's whole body grew tight. He leered over her and glared down at her, the red contact lenses flashing dangerously. "Who are you?"

She grinned proudly. "My name is Lily Talbot! I'm your biggest fan! I've always wanted to meet you and I can't wait to talk more, Gerald, this is a dream come true!"

"Do not call me that."

"What…?" Lily cocked her head, the Cheshire grin spreading from ear to ear. "What's wrong with Gerald, I think it's cute." Bridge's lips twitched. "I mean, it's your name, right? What kind of name is Bridge? Not very… I dunno, speakable. Oh look, it's the big and scary Bridge, come to cross from island to island. I mean, Gerald Ryoushi is such a better stage name. Surprised you didn't use it in Tokyo."

"How do you know my name?" Bridge asked, each syllable dripping with disgust.

"Dude, didn't you hear me? I've followed your whole history!"

"Why?"

The simple word caused the grin to fade into a more subtle smile. As he and Lily watched their past selves, the Lily beside him tightened her grip again. She groaned audibly.

"Your music changed my life," the memory of Lily said. "That's not hyperbole. It's real. I was… having a hard time. My dad wasn't very well. I was struggling, feeling sorry for myself. I switched on the radio and then I heard your song To Die Another Life, to Live another Death. I've never felt anything like I did that night. I fell asleep listening to your voice. Your lyrics, your music, it's not like the rest of the money-grubbing artists around. There's this… passion… within them, passion that spoke directly to me. I've always dreamed of meeting you, Gerald."

"I didn't ask for your life story!" Bridge snapped and started walking off down the corridor. Lily practically skipped behind him.

"The point is, I'm looking forward to getting to know you even more! I'm going to be at every concert, so you may as well get to know me, right?"

"I'd rather get to know roadkill."

"Aw, c'mon Gerald!"

Bridge was practically running away from Lily and they disappeared from the corridor.

He stood next to his Lily in the empty corridor and looked at her. She was covering her face with one hand. "What's wrong?"

"Just… horrifying. I was such a fangirl. Proper cringeworthy."

"You never stopped being one."

"I mean… fair. But I became more subtle about it."

"I'm not certain I would call anything about you following me subtle Lily."

Lily grew quiet and gently pulled her hand away from him. "Can I ask you a question?"

"If I can answer it, I will."

"Why did you go along with it? I know what I was like. Following you around like I did, concert-to-concert, sneaking into places I shouldn't, trying to catch you when no-one else was around. You never did call the police. You would threaten me, and shout at me, but you would never actually take action. Why not?"

He smiled. It was strange. He felt comfortable here within this dreamscape of his mind. He felt like he could talk without worry, even with Lilly. Especially with Lily. "There's a reason you're in these parts of my mind. You were important to me. You were the only person who never tried to figure me out. You never thought I was putting on an act, or being someone I wasn't. You saw me for what I actually was. You never thought of me as a mystery or someone to be worshipped. You just simply thought of me as an equal. Yes, you were annoying and I hated you for calling me by that name, and you wouldn't take no as an answer, but you were real."

"Oh." Lily looked away. "I see. I think you need to wake up now, Gerald. I don't want to see anything else."

"You think I'm doing this?" He shrugged. "I'm just along for the ride."

"You're dying, Gerald."

"I figured. I guess watching your life flash before your eyes isn't just a saying."

"So do something about it, Gerald. You can't just accept it."

He just shrugged. "I'm not so sure there is anything wrong with acceptance. Our time comes when our times come." He looked at her. "Right, Lily?"

The construction site. Both of them shivered. Both of them knew what the crumbled structure meant.

It had already happened. Lily was sprawled on the ground, the brutality of her murder stark before he and the Lily beside him. Bridge was cradling her, tears running down the unburned side of his face, his lips curled into a grimace. It was a face rarely seen upon the face of the enigma. Her blood stained him, becoming one with him. It was a horrifying sight.

"I don't want to see this," Lily said but still she couldn't look away.

"Nor do I. But I think we need to," He replied. "This is the moment it all changed. It is the moment we both died."

"You didn't die, Gerald."

"No?" He held his hand against his chest. "It certainly felt like it."

Bridge was sobbing without relief, shoulders bucking, his voice cracking. Throughout the broken noises of his grief were the words "Lily, Lily," over and over again.

"You… reacted this way for me?" Lily asked, her lips quivering.

"I did," he responded gently. He could never admit it in reality. He could never say it face-to-face. But here, he could admit it. He could admit the grief he felt when he found Lily Talbot murdered in the ruins of the construction site.

"I don't deserve that grief."

"You didn't deserve to die."

"I don't want to see you like this, Gerald, I don't! Let's get out of here, let's leave, you should wake up, Gerald, please, I don't like this!" Lily tugged and tugged but he did not let go. He knew that he needed to watch. It was a blind spot of his memory. He could never remember exactly what happened after Lily had died. He had always known it was important, but he had always assumed it was simply a period of grief before he started travelling with Lily in his mind, when he thought he was crazy, when he finally chose to go to Hearthome. Now here he was within his dreamscape and he knew he was seeing this for a reason.

Bridge held Lily's corpse tighter and tighter, burying his face into her shoulder, not caring for the still fresh burns on his face. As Bridge clutched the corpse, he and Lily both noticed it at the same time. A golden glow from the hands underneath her body. Soft, like candle-light, but warm. Even from their distance, he and Lily could feel that warmth.

"Lily…" Bridge cried. "I need you… You can't go, I need you! You said you would follow me wherever I went, don't leave me alone, I can't be alone, Lily!"

What they saw was unbelievable, almost fantastical. If either of them hadn't experienced the List first-hand and what the supernatural truly meant within their world, neither of them would have believed what they were seeing. The glow of light grew around Bridge's hands and threads of light seeming to burrow their way into Lily's corpse. The threads pulsed like a heartbeat and from behind Bridge, a faintly shimmering figure faded into existence.

The figure slowly changed shape, growing small, and thin, and eventually became the clear figure of Lily Talbot. The threads pulsed harder as her eyes opened. She regarded the corpse on the floor and the sobbing Bridge and reached down to touch Bridge's shoulder. Her fingers passed through him as if he wasn't even there.

"Gerald?" This ghostly, golden Lily asked, her voice strangely far yet close.

"Come back, come back, come back!" Bridge sobbed. It was clear he didn't realise what was happening. Perhaps he could not see the golden threads that he and the Lily beside him could see. The pulsing grew harder and harder, and Bridge started shaking more.

"Gerald, stop…" The golden Lily said. This time she managed to press her hand on his shoulder. "Stop it, you're hurting yourself, stop!"

Bridge either didn't hear or didn't care. He clutched Lily's corpse tighter and tighter as the warm golden light grew stronger. Small trails of blood started oozing from his nose, his eye, the open sores of his burn on his face.

"Stop!" This time it was the Lily beside him. She looked up at him desperately. "What's going on? What is this?"

"I don't know." He said quietly. "But I think I can guess. I think… I think I created you, Lily. I don't know how. I don't remember. But I don't think you're necessarily a ghost. I think…" He looked at his hand. It was fading. "Oh."

"Created?" Lily echoed the word. No, it wasn't just as simple as creation. It was something more, something more… interconnected. She stared at him as he faded and then stared at Bridge and the golden threads. The golden figure of her behind him seemed to be growing stronger, even though she was trying to wrestle it away.

"Gerald!" The golden figure of Lily screamed and finally managed to prise Bridge off of her corpse. Bridge grunted and fell backwards and the threads snapped. The golden hue disappeared and there were three figures sprawled on the ground now. The corpse of Lily Talbot. The slender form of Bridge. And the unharmed visage of Lily.

Lily realised it in a moment. The Lily that had been golden was her. It wasn't that she was created but rather that Bridge was trading his lifeforce for her lifeforce. She was never a ghost, and never a human. She was somewhere in between, because she had stopped him from giving all of himself to bring her back.

"I understand…" Lily turned to him, where he was staring at his hands, fading and flickering like an old static TV. "Gerald, I understand. We're connected more deeply than I ever could have guessed. We are parts of the same whole. The closer I am to living, the closer you are to death." She could remember holding the crayon when she was sitting next to Gracie. Of being able to touch him when he came out of the van. Of people hearing her voice. "The closer you are to death…" Lily's blue eyes widened. "The closer I am to living."

For a moment, she came extremely close to cracking. Whatever he had done at the construction site had created a parasite. She had taken a part of him in order to be able to exist in any sense at all.

Jason had been right. Lily Talbot had died that night at the construction site. She wasn't Lily anymore. She couldn't protect him anymore. She was hurting him just by being there. Not only mentally, by reminding him of what had happened every time he saw her. But physically because of the connection they held.

And then she could see them. The warm golden threads emanating from her own heart. Lily looked around but the construction site was gone now, the dreamscape was gone. It was just her and him, connected by the soft golden threads.

"You deserve a second chance," he said. The threads pulsated.

"You still have your first, Gerald."

"…You never wanted to call me by what I wanted."

Lily tentatively reached out and found that she could grab the thread. She held it. "Gerald, you have to wake up."

"You can live again. You were happy away from me, right?"

"And you were happy with Cynthia…" Lily pulled on the thread harder. "Wake up, Gerald!"

"I should have died when I got this burn. You saved me. That was my time. That was my second chance. You died because you wanted to save me."

"Damn it, Gerald, wake up!"

"I'm happy to let you live."

"I'm not! Wake up, Gerald!" Lily wrestled with the threads. "Bridge, wake the fuck up!" She pulled harder and harder. "John, wake up!"

The threads snapped.

John opened his eyes with a gasp. It took him a long moment to realise he was in the Hearthome Psychiatric Hospital, within the medical bay, in a side room where he was hooked up to all kinds of monitors and devices. He found himself staring directly into Lily Talbot's sharp blue eyes. She was straddling him over the sheets that were covering him. He could feel her light weight on top of him. Tentatively, John raised his fingers and brushed a tear away from her eye. He could feel the lightness of her skin.

"Lily?"

"You're awake," Lily said, relieved.

"That was a strange dream."

"It really, really was."

John never looked away from her eyes. "What happened?"

"A week ago, you were shot. You were brought back here. You nearly died."

"A week?" John went to move but found he had no strength at all. "A week…"

Lily smiled. Something was wrong. John could feel it. As he looked into her eyes, he spotted something within. Almost a speckle of gold. John slowly realised that there were speckles of gold around her face, as well, pinpricks of golden light on Lily's skin.

"Lily, what's—"

"Let me talk…" Lily said, carefully putting a hand over his mouth. John could feel the coldness of her palm, could feel his breath pushing against it. "I died in London. I understand that. You gave up a part of yourself to bring me back. I thank you for allowing me to experience that for just a little bit longer. For a long while, I was content just to be by your side. I realise now that does us both no good." There were more tears now and Lily, who would usually be embarrassed and frustrated by such a thing, let them flow freely. Lily took away her hand from John's mouth and he found his lips quivering. He could feel the wetness on his own cheek. He didn't understand what was happening yet somehow he… knew… what was happening. "There's a young woman called Gracie. Can you tell her about me?"

"Lily…"

"She's lovely," Lily smiled behind her tears. "She can't talk, but she has a vivid imagination. I want her to know more about me. Maybe one day when she can leave Hearthome, you can help her find somewhere to live. Hey, have you ever thought about adopting?" There was a certain flatness to her humour. Her words were shaky.

"Lily." John watched the golden pinpricks grow. Even as he watched, parts of her skin started to peel. Not in any kind of a gruesome way, but beautiful, as if her very skin was blooming, and flowering, petals drifting in the wind.

"You should totally get together with Cynthia. She's been visiting every day. Kept talking about how you were ruining all the time she spent on her hair. Told you she would make you love country music whether you wanted to or not. She definitely likes you and going by that smile I saw you have, you definitely like her."

"Please…" John could feel the weight of her growing lighter and lighter.

Lily's face grew closer. Her forehead tapped against John's. "Thank you for letting me say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye the last time. This time I can do it on my own terms. Honestly, I feel blessed to get a second chance like this. How many get something like this?"

John could feel his arms shaking. He could feel the tears streaking down the unmarked side of his face.

"I like seeing this side of you," Lily smiled behind her tears. "To think, all the scoops I would get to sell the story of the emotionless enigma sobbing like a baby!" The golden flakes were drifting from every part of her now, encased in a warm cocoon of gold. "I want you to write a song about me, okay? Something really heart-wrenching, proper sad stuff. If people aren't crying over my name then you're doing something wrong."

Lily was joking but there was such an intense sadness in her voice that John felt his own heart straining. These feelings were unlike anything he ever had. They were stronger even than those feelings of grief and anger he had when he had discovered Lily. Only these feelings were just grief, he was sad, yes, but he felt like he could finally say those words. Yet even as he opened his mouth, different words sprung in their place.

"Don't go," John croaked.

"I love you, John," Lily leaned forward and kissed John. For a split second, nothing existed other than John and Lily. The second seemed like both an eternity, and an instant. John closed his eyes, experiencing love so strongly that he knew Lily would always be a part of his very core.

John opened his eyes.

Golden motes drifted into the sunlight.

The weight was gone. The feeling on his lips lingered.

"…I love you, Lily." His words were said to empty air, but he felt like they had been heard.