A/N - This is the epilogue to Part Four of the Where The Bleeding Hearts Grow series. There was supposed to be more than one section, each of which describing the aftermath of a selection of protagonists, however, due to the lack of interest the epilogue was cut into its current state below. Please take this foreword into consideration and enjoy. - MB

Autumn is in its prime. Leaves, stricken with fading colors, billowing in the gusts of wind, are carried across the stretches of the sidewalk. There is a chill in the air that bites at one's nose and ears; the kind that beckons one to clench their hands into fists to fight the numbing of their fingers. The clouds are grey, and mournful. They have seen many things, during the passing of many suns. Time has stretched before their wake and given them plenty to silently observe. Sometimes, these clouds weep. Sometimes, they part to give sunlight. Today, they are laden with sorrow.

Max stands there, upon the sidewalk, facing towards the house. The tiled-concrete path cutting through the front lawn is the same as when she last saw it—her father liked to make sure it was clean and would wash it down whenever it got muddy from a storm. But where there was supposed to be cleanliness, there was disorder: weeds were poking out from the blades of grass, and many cracks and blemishes could be seen on the tiles. It felt empty, abandoned.

The house was more or less in the same condition. It's roof was a dark grey, and the house itself was painted a shade of soft, greyish blue. The steps leading up to the front door were the same, weathered pale color, caused by the sun and the elements. Yet, Max felt a twinge of loneliness, seeing these things. They felt wrong, unusual. She was a stranger to these things. Even when she began her walk along the path and up the steps, she doesn't remember the feelings she once felt when Mom would drive her to her elementary school, nor could she taste the hot cocoa in her cup, when her and Dad would sit outside and watch the snow fall on Christmas Eve.

The chairs were still there, on the right side of the patio. The cushions were gone. Probably stolen. She shakes her head of the doubtful remark, and reminds herself it's just as likely that Mom and Dad brought the cushions in to protect them from the wind and rain.

It's too quiet. Granted, most people have left by now. Months of bitter fighting in and around the great city of Seattle have left their mark on the homes and buildings Max once knew. Many houses she had passed by on her journey here were charred husks, the trees burned into lifeless trunks and the ground littered with ash and smoldering metal. It seemed like a miracle to see her home still standing like this, as if untouched by the war.

And it had taken a long journey to get here, Caulfield noted. Many months spent in Arkadia, then joining up with the volunteers of a new militia formation, one which intended to cast the Reds out of Cascadia once and for all. Fighting through the wilderness, the towns, then across the mighty Columbia river and into the heart of the Puget Sound, day by day, slowly and with painstaking endeavor. Holdouts within the city still existed, even after the militia's decisive victory in the city center which drove the majority of the Reds out and into the suburbs of the northeast. It seems the Reds had abandoned their positions on the west side, a fact which made Max's journey all the easier. Having to slog it through this suburban sprawl wouldn't be any different to what she had experienced before. It was never fun having to think of all the wounded militiamen she had carried out of battlefields and into field hospitals, only to have them perish before they arrived, or succumb to their wounds thereafter. Many nightmares came and went of how these poor souls would beg of her to write letters to their family members, to impart one final message before death took them away forever.

The last time Max talked with her parents, it was from her cellphone after having the chance to recharge its battery. Mom was quick to begin crying once she recognized her voice, a fact which brought her to tears. Dad was tired, she could hear the exhaustion in his tone. He worked to keep both himself and Mom safe, and they held out hope that someday things would get better. Max had promised them she would come back, that she would give them a big hug, and that she would never give up on searching for them.

That promise was made months ago. Now, standing on the front patio, Max wonders if she really is capable of fulfilling that promise.

The screen door creaked as she pulled on it. The front door, a solid slab of lacquered oak, was locked. Her gaze turned down to the small table and the potted plant resting atop it. The spare key was still there in a small compartment in the pot. It was then inserted, and the lock was turned.

She hesitated. Her hand rested on the door handle, the other still clutching to the sling of her rifle. It's only now she looks upon herself, with her ragtag uniform and jacket, and her rucksack, and her helmet latched onto the latter. She realizes that she is not Max, the aspiring high school student and future photographer. She is Max, the stretcher-bearer and whisperer of prayers for the dead. A soldier. A stranger.

Her hand eases off the handle. She stands there, alone.

I shouldn't be here.

Tears rolled down her face. A wave of grief suddenly encompasses her, and she raises her hand to cover the pitiful sight. She can't stop herself from collapsing to her knees, her kit weighing her down and dragging her to the floor. Desperately, she loosens the straps and lets these heavy weights roll off her shoulders, but it does nothing to quell the burden in her heart.

I shouldn't be here.

All the terror that has passed her by, all the fear and pain and heartache she had seen, had felt, had taken part in—it all comes crashing down upon her. She realizes now, why she could not go any farther. She treads upon a place where happiness once lived, still lives, in memories she holds dear. To force her way into this, is to force those memories out and replace them with the trauma she has, and might never be rid of.

I can't do it.

She sobs, and curls in on herself. She doesn't hear the door's bolt click, nor see the door slowly open.

"…Max?"

When she turns to the sound of her name, she can't even see them. Her eyes are so full of tears, she cannot make them out. It is only once they pull her into an embrace that she knows it's them, and she cries even harder.

"Mom, Dad—I'm sorry," she sobs, "I—I'm sorry. I missed you. I'm sorry—"

Mom shushes her, whispers in her ear that all's forgiven. Her arms wrap around Max's shuddering frame easily, and she coaxes Max's head into the crook of her shoulder. Her mother smells of lavender, and parsley. It reminds Max of the small garden of herbs in their backyard, of when she would help water the plants and watch for ladybugs.

Dad's hand, rough with callouses, reaches out and massages her scalp, his voice a soft baritone parroting Mom's gentle words. He did that whenever she was sick, or had trouble sleeping after a bad day at school. Her hair was no longer soft, nor easy to pass his fingers through, but it didn't matter to him. It would hurt him more to never be able to comfort his daughter again.

Time was measured by each shuddering sob. Eventually, they brought her into the living room, and set her down on the large sofa layered with soft blankets. Max idly watches the ceiling fan as its blades swirl overhead. She can't stop sniffling, and rubbing her sleeve against her runny nose.

The TV was on, barely audible. It was the local news station, reporting the newest updates on the frontline over by the Central District and West Bellevue. The militia were striking enemy positions from across Lake Washington from their newly captured strongpoint of Mercer Island.

Mom comes from the kitchen with a glass of water and a ham-and-cheese sandwich. She gives Max a kiss on the forehead, and whispers that she'll be outside in the backyard. Dad is in the recliner next to the sofa, a half-empty bottle of his favorite beer in the recliner's cup holder. Every once in a while, he'll glance over to check on her, and smile when he catches her staring at him.

She eats, and passes out from exhaustion soon after. When she wakes up, it's dinnertime. She has no appetite, but they do not force her to eat. She excuses herself to take a shower, and finds her bedroom in search of a change of clothes.

It is as though she walks into a stranger's room, with its tidy furnishings and posters tacked on the walls. Her old blanket and pillow feel foreign as she brushes her fingers against the fabric. The desk in the corner is covered in a sheen of dust, and her cup of pencils was tipped over, the contents spilled over the top. Her closet was still full of the clothes she left behind, thankfully.

Hot water was a luxury only the militia officers and a select few of the section-leaders had access to. Common soldiers like her were rarely given the chance to freshen up, and it was always with the coldest water imaginable. She found herself standing under the showerhead for a lot longer than she was used to. It felt warm, and comforting. It felt like a Friday night, when she had finished all her schoolwork and was looking forward to catching up on some rest after a long week.

Clean and cozy in her new set of clothes, Max heads back into the living room. Mom and Dad are on the sofa, whispering to each other as they watched a movie. Mom always picked rom-coms, and Dad always picked gritty action-thrillers, and she always got to be the deciding vote on which movie they'd watch. This time, it was an old western, one which she couldn't remember the name of. They do not notice her immediately, but once they do, they pause the movie and beckon her to sit down between them.

"How are you feeling?" Dad breaks the ice.

"…I'm okay," is all she can respond with.

Mom's brow pinches worriedly, "Were you fighting your way up here, to us?"

Max knew better than to take that question literally. Mom could definitely parcellate what Max's rifle and kit was for. Rather—she was asking for something more specific.

"No. I wasn't fighting, Mom. I was a stretcher-bearer, a medic. I carried the wounded."

Dad hummed. He knew well what she spoke of. Mom seemed a lot more relieved, knowing her daughter wasn't as close to danger as she initially thought. Neither of them needed to know about the finer details. Neither needed to know about what happened in Arkadia.

"You…you don't have to talk about it right now," Dad carefully spoke, "Whenever you're ready, that's when. Not a moment sooner."

They resumed the movie. She was content to just sit between them, and let the movie play out. She wasn't paying much attention to it anyways; her thoughts took her to the long journey she endured to reach her home, and her parents. Names and faces pass through her vision, smiles and peals of laughter and bitter cold mornings and bittersweet sunsets, low-quality coffee and the tang of blood and smoke are all she can remember. Nothing particular sticks out, for she's not looking for something specific—the whole of her journey was marked by the chance of death reaching out to her, and her ability to circumvent its grasp. For good or for bad, she had cheated death when others had not.

Max couldn't help it. Tears bloomed in her eyes again.

God, thank you for letting me live, where others have died. Thank you for letting me see my parents again. This is all I've ever wanted.

The movie stops playing. Already mom has a hand on hers to show support.

"Max? Sweetie, what's…?"

Before the doubts could stop her, she rotated to face her elders, then she pulled them into a hug. It was awkward, for they did not expect this sudden affection, but they did not protest as Max wept in their arms.

"I promised I'd come back. I promised," Max cried, "I'll never leave you like that again. Never. I love you, Mom, Dad. I'll…I'll always love you."

They replied by tightening their embrace. The Caulfield family was silent in its reunion, but it was content, and it was grateful. They had survived, and this was what mattered most.

Max was finally home.