3.1 The Hour of New Dawn

Mundanity was nice. It was easy, routine she could sink into without stressing over the sudden pop up of something exciting enough to break what she regarded her normal.

Waking in the same disheveled manner, nearly comforting in its familiarity as she tidied up and dressed in her plain bookstore t-shirt, worn jeans and a coat. Simple breakfast of cheese crackers and a carton of milk she devoured the entirety of on the short commute to The Lost Pages.

Then she was promptly suck into work. Opening up, providing book recommendations and facilitating transactions. Shelving, taking inventory, restocking.

Short interlude she used to grab her favorite lettuce and tomato sandwich from the cafe just opposite and downed it with iced tea plus an apple she carted back for vitamins.

Back to helping process returns, managing more transactions and tidying up the displays. Closing up, taking the opposite route from her co-workers and picking up spicy beef noodles from a popular Chinese restaurant just before the station.

Takeout for dinner but it'd have to suffice. The rest was even more tranquilizing. Slowly eating her meal while browsing her phone, a popular variety show playing in the background and then tidying up the space around her. Catching half an hour of the show before heading into her bedroom to get ready for bed.

Having dog-eared the current page of her latest read she soon set on her nightstand, Willoughby now lay curled up cozily in her throw blanket, a soft smile on her lips as her gaze found the window opposite her bed that remained half-open and brought in a steady swirl of snowflakes.

Much too lazy to leave the comfort of her layers, she watched it for a while before finally steeling herself to at least take the first step and get off the bed. Cold fingertips pressed to the even colder pane and Willoughby found herself hesitating, the thumping bass and lively music accompanied by cheers the street over in the town square a tempting lull.

Pulling the window close, she meandered over to her wardrobe and pulled on the snuggest option she could find. Cream cable knit sweater tucked halfway in the jeans she pulled on over thin long johns and her boots. Complete with her down parka, a plum colored scarf, gloves and a beanie for added warmth, she headed out her house.

Her steps were slow and measured, almost reminiscent as she bid her time leisurely heading over. The music waxed louder the closer she got and she slowed even more, ultimately stopping altogether to take it all in.

Willoughby had always passed the town square to get to her workplace on the outskirts but she'd never paused to actually appreciate it, in too much of a rush to meet up with the store's opening time.

Beautiful. Mesmerizing. Enchanting.

Even those words seemed to cheapen the experience. Snow stretched miles and miles like something straight out of a fantasy, the people dotting the landscape nearly as fantastical in their exuberance for the new year. There were lights, so many lights it was like a thousand tiny lighthouses come together.

Colorful streamers hung from lamp posts and trees, stretching across the square and bringing her gaze to where much more hung from the clock tower, final focus the large clock illuminated even brighter just within the tower.

Willoughby couldn't help her eyes crinkling into upturned slits at the sight. Upon realizing there was still a good half hour to go to the new year, she started walking to one of the snack tables set up by the community, letting her feet guide her.

One exchange of merry greetings later, she stood comfortably near the table with the reindeer-themed cover, cup of hot chocolate and marshmallows clasped between her palms and warming all the way to her heart. Even when the minutes that made up the half hour to midnight dwindled to one, she remained sipping from her mug meters away from where all the exuberant chanting was going on.

She counted along with them in her mind, feeling the steam from the mug rising to warm her cheeks. From sixty. Down to forty. Down to twenty. She turned to refill her mug, the serving lady who'd attended to her too busy fixated on the sights ahead and counting alongside many others.

Willoughby helped herself.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

She let another marshmallow drift into her mouth with the sip she took, quietly chewing as she finished the last few seconds of countdown.

Seven. Six.

She'd messily rolled her mass of hair into a bun atop of her head before pulling the beanie on and now the wind blew across, the tendrils that had remained at her temple and nape tickling her skin. She smiled into her mug.

Five.

Time seemed to slow to a trickle as she started at the bright clock that suddenly seemed to be moving at snail's space, barely even blinking.

Four.

She took another long gulp of her drink, antsy for no particular reason.

Three.

She set the mug aside, shoving her gloves fingers deep in the pockets of her parka and waiting, still not sure what it was that had compelled her out of her house in the first place. Willoughby had never been one to act on impulse.

Two.

The snow gave a dull crunch as she rocked back on the heels of her feet, parting her lips to count the final second under her breath.

"Lou."

There was no dramatic moment like all the breath leaving her at that husky voice leaning in close to her ear. No heart stopping, no face paling, ear tips reddening.

Or well, there were red ear tips. But just from the cold.

It was the endearing tone she could recognize even in her dreams so she took it as just that. A dream. The cold breath hitting her neck should have been warning enough but she hadn't been able to visualize even his existence so her conscience justified it as yet another dream.

"I really think we could do so much better," he whispered, the very words akin to a caress.

Her gaze involuntarily found the golden fireworks in the air, her frown easing despite the nagging in the back of her mind to wake up.

Welcome to 2020.

"So," the words continued tickling her neck, teasing her in every sense. "How about we try again?"

Willoughby's smile faded as she turned stiffly and came face-to-face with that charming face. This was no dream. That it was the same quiet urging she'd always envisioned had been what confused her.

"Dallas."

"Happy New Year, Lou," he said with a smile. "Can we talk?"

Willoughby had to fight to keep the sneer off her face. "There's nothing to talk about," she said and it annoyed her how the smile, despite dimming, remained sitting on his lips.

"No need to rush to cut me off." He made to reach for her hand but Willoughby easily evaded the touch, sidestepping out of his reach.

She ignored the pain that lanced blatantly across his features, unable to help thinking, a wry smile on her lips, that their roles had been reversed for a moment. Just who exactly had been crumbling from the pain? Just who should still be collapsing under the weight of their anguish?

There was only one answer.

Not him.

"Think about it, Lou," he pleaded, reaching for her hand once more, succeeding and firmly holding on even when she tried to break free.

Willoughby glanced down detachedly, looking at the limb as though it was no longer a part of her.

"Really think about it," he said, pressing a thin card into her palm. "Give me a call when you do. Maybe we can talk about it over some lunch?"

Her gaze darkened at the connotations that mere it provided. "Don't bank on it," she sneered, ripping her wrist free and walking off.

Ignoring the gaze that was probably still on her back, she shoved her hands back into her pockets, curling them right as she turned the street.

Try again? He had a lot of nerve suggesting that.

Fighting against the wave of tears that had her eyes misting, she walked up her steps and shut herself inside her house. Instead of heading back to her bedroom, she turned into the room just adjacent, ignoring the frilly punk decorations and going to settle in front of the wardrobe.

She was still fully clad and wrapped with warmth but as she slipped off her gloves, exposing slender fingers to retrieve the shoebox shoved in the back of the wardrobe floor, she couldn't help feeling cold to her bones.

Her gaze was raw, burning with tears as she pulled out a sheaf of pictures, undoing the string that held the thin pile together, and started going through them. They were the only couple pictures she had with her daughter, Harper.

The only chance she'd gotten to capture and have physical proof that the moment in time hadn't been an illusion had been post delivery cuddling close to the babe after she'd been fed.

She looked wan, strands of milk woven into chocolate pulled in a clasp behind her as she cradled her baby close, a chubby thumb around her finger. The star of the hour had the thumb of her other hand in her mouth, gnawing at it as she stared into the camera with starry, wide-blown eyes.

A tear fell on the picture and Willoughby gently thumbed it off before getting to her feet. There was a crib to the side of the room but she didn't dare look at it, making a beeline for the bed she'd set up so she could accompany her crying child through the night.

She went to bed just like that, curling up in the fluffy pink sheets, the onesie dotted with cute polkadot ladybugs she'd retrieved from the shoebox clutched tight in her hand.

Try again?

What a load of crap.

3.2 The Hour of Truth

Willoughby knew it'd be a given she wouldn't be able to set her mind to accomplishing anything given the calling card Dallas had unceremoniously stuffed in her hands that remained deep in the pockets of her parka, untouched.

Her mind had gone a lot of places in the past twelve hours, touching nothing and everything all at once. So he'd gotten her pregnant when she'd hardly been thinking straight. It hadn't been easy but she was long over that part of her past. After all, that didn't hurt nearly as much as the consequences she'd faced.

Even thinking about it had her heart contracting with stacked up tension. Did she want anything to do with him after all what he'd put her through? Obviously not.

He couldn't even begin trying to scrape the basic understanding of all what she'd lost because of him. Then again, when he'd upped and disappeared into thin air following the announcement of her pregnancy, hadn't she hoped even for a short while that there must have been something far more important to have taken him away for six over years?

But wasn't that just her making excuses for him where there couldn't be any legitimate one?

"Willoughby?"

She shook off her haze at the smooth, velvety baritone that snapped up her attention, fingers stilling on the spine of the book she was shelving away. "Yes?" her response was polite at best, only attributed to his wearing the same work shirt, dampening the hackles that might have risen at his overly unfamiliar face.

"How's your day going?" he asked, seemingly cautious as he looked her over. "Need help with anything?"

"I've got it," she said, brow furrowing the slightest at the needless interaction. As though as an afterthought to soften the coarse rejection, flickering her gaze over to his name tag in what she hoped was surreptitious enough movement, she quickly tacked on, "but thank you. . . Arrow?"

"That's me," he piped, his already ruggedly charming smile widening even more in obvious amusement at the confusion on her face. "And I think you might. This is the self-help section."

Willoughby lowered her gaze to the Food Around The World cookbook still pinched between her fingertips, lip twitching at the corner before she pulled it back and into the book cart, stoic.

"Let me help," he said, tagging along when she started pushing the cart again, allotting the books back to their correct categories at each stop. "You've looked a bit out of it since this morning. Rough night?"

"It was fine," her tone was clipped, killing whatever was left of the conversation. So they finished the rest of the task with tacit understanding, one pushing and one shelving.

"You don't have to push yourself," Arrow said as they got behind the counter, taking over so their colleague, Sheila, could head to the sales floor to help with queries there. "Do you need to go? Sheila and the rest of us can handle things."

"I can't do that," Willoughby said despite how tempted she was to jump at the offer. "We're already understaffed enough. Plus, there's still the sales peak coming around with the holiday discounts."

Arrow paused. It was the most he'd heard her say to any of them in one sitting and it had a dull ache rising where his smile deepened even more. "If you're sure." He didn't harp on it and begin processing purchases for customers alongside her.

She said one thing but Willoughby was distracted enough.

Did Dallas really have a plausible explanation for just abandoning her so abruptly in what was the most trying period of her life?

Did he deserve a listen to just waltzing back and expecting her to jump into waiting arms?

"Earth to Willoughby," Arrow called when he had to take care of both lines of customers lining up before them.

"Then I'll take you up on that offer," she said, hands ripping off her parka off the rack behind her. "Let me owe you one?"

She was off before he could muster up a response and it took a lot of mustering for Arrow to rip his gaze off her back and turn back to the line of customers that had long merged into one. He guessed combining discounted sales with slightly longer areas in such a tourist area bookstore was a recipe for instant success. Too bad too little of them remained there for the holidays.

Once she had sunk into one of the cushy seats at the table she chose, Willoughby whipped out the call card before settling her parka behind her. Her fingers were tense along the edges of her phone as she waited for the call to connect. The number was largely different from the one she'd once foolishly committed to memory like it was the most important thing ever.

"Lou?" his voice was perking up in amusement the instant it did connect but Willoughby didn't rush to respond. "Did you. . . decide yet?"

"Sure," she said, ignoring the cautious way he now spoke to her, something she'd have preferred over the callous treatment she'd gotten back then. "Let's talk about it."

She rattled off the address to The Blue Bean and disconnected before he had the chance to initiate useless pleasantries. They would be seeing soon anyways.

"Will!" she broke into a real smile at the sight of the elderly store owner making his way over. "Happy New Year. It's been ages. Your usual?"

She shook her head. "I'll just have water, Max," she said, nodding her head to the crystal jug on the table and watching him tuck away his notepad. "I'm waiting for someone. Plus, you just saw me yesterday."

"That was last year," he said with a cheeky grin. "It's still a while until your lunch break. Date?"

Willoughby chuckled, unable to help it. "You know that's no longer my scene," she said, a gentle smile touching her lips as he patted her arm and filled a tall glass for her.

"Just ring up when you're ready," he said and took his leave.

Willoughby picked up the chilled glass, feeling warmth pervade deep into her core at the action. He'd been a beacon of strength for her back then when it seemed like she'd crumble under the weight of all of her loss. Then when they both begin grieving, she, her kid and he, his wife who he'd found the cafe with, it just became more reason to become each other's pillar of strength.

She raised the glass to her lips for a sip.

"Lou."

She glanced up over the rim of her glass, swallowing before putting it aside and leaning back in her seat, arms crossed.

"It's been a while," he said, gaze soft as he sank into his seat.

Willoughby kept mum, wondering how it was possible for the same words that had filled her with warmth just minutes ago, now provoked a completely different sentiment.

"You look really good, Lou."

She arched her brow. What? Did he expect her to appear down and out too?

"Just get to the point," she said. The words were callous in their delivery but she didn't care for trying to take it back at the sight of his face falling. She knew she looked good. She started taking enough care in her appearance so she didn't look to be in as dire straits as she was on the inside.

She'd gone the simpler route today. Her work t-shirt over a charcoal grey turtleneck, navy blue corduroys and thick socks with her converse sneakers. But when had he ever paid any attention to that? She'd take a wild guess on it being nothing more than something to fill the silence and she'd be right.

"We could at least get something first?" he asked. "Talk while we eat?"

"Sure." Willoughby didn't really care. "You order."

"How about a light dessert?" he continued. "Your favorite?"

"You know what that is?" she asked, lip hooking in a smile that lacked mirth and hardly reached her eyes.

Dallas managed a smile, though it only managed to make him look constipated with all the barbs she was throwing. "Did your tastes change then?" he asked.

Willoughby didn't respond. It'd been a long six years. Even something as minute as taste could change in twenty four hours. Though she was sure he'd never really known what she liked in the first place.

Max arrived then, arching a brow at the sight of Dallas who looked dressed to the nines on what she'd related as a not date.

Willoughby didn't know how to start explaining he'd always taken meticulous care in how he came across. Though that'd just come across as her trying and failing to defend her innocence so she'd just rather not.

"What would you guys be having?" Max asked, darting his gaze over to the gentleman when she jerked her chin his way.

"Cinnamon muffins and a caramel macchiato for me," Dallas said and darted an unsure gaze over. "A mango cheesecake and mango lassi for her."

Max's scribbling stopped, his pen hovering just over the surface of his notepad as he glanced at Willoughby. This was no date.

She gave a soft chuckle, the sound boiling over until she was letting a good laugh out, even having to wipe tears from the edge of her eyes.

Max felt sorry for her but tried not to let it show. "I'll get you some gingerbread scones and a latte," he said. "On the house."

Her eyes softened but her lips were pursed thin, set in one grim line. "Thanks, Max," she said and picked up her glass, not saying a word even after he was gone.

"I thought you liked it enough," Dallas managed a murmur. "Didn't you?"

"And you claimed to like me?" she said after taking her sweet time with a long sip of water. "I can't even stand mangoes." Not for the reason he was probably thinking. Her words should have rung a bell but she guessed from his blank stare it definitely didn't. Just the once she'd had a bite of a mango pudding, was so life-threatening she had to be rushed to the ICU.

And to think he'd been the one doing the rushing. Now, he didn't even remember. She couldn't even imagine how much of a ludicrous sham their short-lived relationship might have seemed to others.

"Go on." She broke the silence first with a quirk of her lips. "Didn't you have something to say?"

"I do."

"Then, go ahead. Tell me the truth as you perceived it," she said. "I sure as hell don't have anything to say to you."

"I'm really sorry," he said, averting his gaze to the table linen. "I was hoping we could start over."

Willoughby waited. She'd gathered that much from his impromptu return into her life with those ambiguous words he'd shared on the town square.

She had been expecting more than that though.

He was sorry? So what? She was far more sorry for ever getting involved with him in the first place.

He wanted to start over? The only reason she was still breathing the same air as him was because she needed to know his reason for leaving. She owed it to herself.

She owed it to Harper.

She waited and waited. When it was obvious he wasn't going to be adding to it, another laugh rose unbidden from her.

3.3 The Hour of Atonement

She stopped the sound, abrupt, when he just stared back with that lost expression, going as far as to look around the cafe to make sure no one was paying attention to their table. Fun fact, they were.

"I don't get your amusement," he said after a while, raising washed out blues to her.

"Wasn't that the punchline?" she said with a snort. "My bad. Go right ahead."

"I mean it with everything I am," Dallas murmured, right hand fiddling with the cuff of his other white sleeve resting on the table. When her gaze dropped to his hands, he tucked them away under the table.

"Is that it? You're sorry?" she asked with a soft, breathless scoff. "Why did you really come back, Dallas?"

"I missed you," he said.

Willoughby would have ignored the sincerity in his eyes and laughed in his face if it wasn't for the ache in her jaw that deeply contrasted how she felt on the inside.

Maybe she wouldn't have minded the ache. Max returned with their orders then though, saving him from the misery and embarrassment another laugh was sure to render him before leaving again.

"Alright then," she said, picking up a gingerbread scone and shaking lightly to reduce the dusting of the already delicate sugar coat. "Why did you leave back then?"

Dallas fidgeted with the emotion that lay plain in her eyes, one she didn't bother trying to hide. He knew it'd be callous to say that he couldn't really remember.

"A proper degree? Work?" she asked. "Or did you just. . ." not care?

"I'm sorry, Lou," he could only say. His memory had always been hazy pertaining to his past ever since he settled in the city so he'd traced back his roots to see if something would spark a memory.

He never expected to stumble upon the truth of an abandoned pregnant girlfriend. He didn't feel like anything could come close to making it up to her and the truth sounded like the barest of excuses.

All he did were the hazy memories he had of them together. Funny how he couldn't recall much of it but knew deep within those were the happiest moments of his life and he'd give anything to have it back.

"Do you actually have anything substantial to say to me?" she asked. When still, he remained silent, she took a bite of her treat and simply focused on chewing, gaze downcast.

"I'm sorry," Dallas could only repeat like a broken record. There'd been numerous hospital visits in a bid to ascertain where the strange memories had originated from, but nothing concrete had been deemed him.

How could he make an excuse when he didn't even fully understand the reason his memories had become so fragmented in the first place? It'd sound worse than the cheapest excuse. And he knew he owed her far better than that.

"It was too much to handle, I guess," he said, trying to infer what might have been his state of mind back then. "We were young. I was barely eighteen, after all."

Willoughby had stopped sinking her drink, playing around with the straw and stirring it this way and that the spicy latte rolled down her throat. "And?" she asked, tone flat. "I was younger. Barely sixteen."

"I'm sorry."

Willoughby sure didn't need to pause to reflect on how hollow those words sounded to her ears. He could hear well enough how much the apology fell flat. "Sure," she said. It wasn't something she needed so late in life but it was something she'd needed and been begrudged so long, so she'd accept it. "Anything else?"

"I'm really sorry," he said again.

Willoughby would let him know it was of no consequence however many times he said it but she didn't even have the energy to care.

"I'd make it up to you the rest of my life if I knew how," he said, morose.

Willoughby didn't respond this time, ditching the straw and taking a long gulp of the latte. She shut her eyes against the film of tears welling up.

How good would it have been if she had heard those words back then? It was all she'd really needed. Just someone, anyone, supporting her through the worst period of her life. At the very least him, who had caused the situation that had spiralled into a lots of losses in the first place, should have been right by her side.

In the beginning, all she'd had was her mother, the only parent she ever knew, doing everything in her power to make sure she at least had everything any other kid her age had. Food. Good clothes. A roof over her head. Quality education.

Everything was tasking enough for the poor woman and Willoughby had wanted nothing more than to do everything in her own power to put a smile on her face. Instead, she'd rewarded her by getting pregnant. She was disappointed in herself, her mother maybe even more so, but the kind Leila had never let it show.

Her mother already had psychological scars from her past with her rarely mentioned father, the politician, getting her, an entertainer, pregnant and tossing her to the curb without an ounce of care.

It was no surprise she'd quickly begun a free fall descent to madness with the same fate befalling her daughter.

Willoughby didn't just lose her mother. There was the scholarship she'd worked so hard for being rescinded because, well, they wouldn't sponsor frolickers.

There were her dreams and the need to show a gossipping mass that they, mother and daughter too, could survive, all rushing down the drain. There were her many saved miscarriages with overworking to ensure she still had food to eat with her ailing mother. Luckily, she'd met Max and her kind manager at the bookstore.

Then there was her daughter. Sweet, innocent Harper. Harper who she'd refused to abort even at the expense of her scholarship. She was the brightest beacon of light of hers back then. Her brightest beacon of light had succumbed to SIDS barely a week after Willoughby had been welcomed into the world with open arms.

"Lou?" Dallas's voice broke her out of her reverie. "I—"

"Fine, then," she said with a scoff, placing bills sufficient enough for her dessert on the table between them and getting to her feet, parka in hand. "You can carry on atoning your mistakes for the rest of your life."

"Wait," he called, rising to his feet so abruptly the table rattled with the force. "I'm sorry. Can't we. . ."

"Back off!" the words came out far sharper and way more intensely than she'd intended. She tried again, injecting calm she didn't feel, the call card lying forgotten on the table between them. "Just back off. You've done enough."

His shoulders slumped but she paid him no mind, stalking out the restaurant. It was too late to make much of a difference by going back to the bookstore but she didn't start home just yet, instead taking the narrow, secluded part that'd wind her up at the one lakeside in this town.

3.4 The Hour of Solace

Willoughby felt she should have known better than to have any expectations of her ex-boyfriend. He was young, immature, and? That was much more than she was. All the dreams she'd crushed, all the people she'd let down. And for what? The fleeting illusion that he might turn around to take up on the naive dreams they'd have that their love would be enough to tide them through, start up a family.

Her own wishful thinking. Perhaps she'd never really been in his plans for his future.

Willoughby laid her parka on the lush greenery serving as an embankment for the dreamlike lakeside with its crystal clear sheen and reflecting the idyllic scenery of the setting sun with its gentle hues of gold, pink and purple. Taking a seat, she leaned in close, running her fingers in the cold water.

For a moment, it was like she was connecting more than just surface level to what appeared to be merely a lake. She'd been here, only once, that day six years ago when she'd finally let go of her daughter's ashes, only reserving a small piece she kept stowed away in a locket.

Even now, she didn't know why she had chosen to cremate her angel instead of setting up a grave. Perhaps she just didn't want Dallas to have the chance to be close to her, dead or alive, seeing her in any form at all. Even as a babe, she could already see his features in her. Blonde hair that was only just spotting across her scalp and the prettiest blue eyes she'd ever seen.

Alright, she admitted she had a bias. Harper was her kid. Who would she deem the prettiest if it wasn't the light of her whole world?

She continued streaking her fingers gently in the water, not expecting to be interrupted while she was just reminiscing. Perhaps another impulse. Perhaps she'd gotten so used to the mundane, she didn't care much if it was just that or something, however minute, ended up changing.

Perhaps that was why she didn't mind the sight of Arrow lowering himself to crouch next to her, accompanying her to watch the setting sun, just the two of them. When it fully disappeared to usher in the darkness and she felt his light gaze fall on the side of her gaze, she decided to break the silence first.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.

"I saw you," he said. A short pause. "Leaving the cafe, I mean. Your mood didn't look quite right."

"It's better now," she said after mulling over it for a while. "Thank you."

They said nothing again, turning back to the lake with all the pretty ripples the soft night breeze blew, making the moon's reflection dance.

"Why?" she asked after a short lapse.

"What?"

She felt his gaze return to her but she focused on the lake. "Why did you come after me?" she asked, having long withdrawn her wet fingers and now sitting with her arms folded on raised knees.

"Just because," he said. Arrow had always lived his life on the go, making spontaneous decision after spontaneous decision. Hence, he really didn't know what answer to give her then. "Besides, I kind of thought of the favour already."

"Favour?" Willoughby was confused to say the least at the thought of favours followed by the gentle nudge to her side. "What favour?"

"You owe me one, remember?" he clicked his tongue when she just returned a blank stare. "Ayy. Women really can't be trusted, huh?"

Willoughby snorted but didn't take his light teasing to heart. "I remember." She chuckled. "I can't think of one thing you'd need from me though," she said, arching a brow when he handed over his phone.

"Sure, I can," he said. "I want your number."

Willoughby blinked, taken aback. Then she gingerly took it from him, their cold fingertips brushing. When she handed it over and he seriously saved the contact before tucking the gadget away and glancing over the lake once again, Willoughby let herself really drink in the sight of him.

He came across as ruggedly charming, impeccable with what looked like little effort. A face with sharper lines than Dallas's, messy blond hair and bright green eyes. Perhaps it'd be too much to compare them. They each had their own merits.

She turned back to the lake too, a soft smile on her face.

What would it hurt to give this a try?

Anyway, what more did she really have to lose?

Meters away under an oak tree that seemed to stretch itself far and wide, Dallas watched the two, not stepping away from under the cover the shade provided. He didn't step in and just watched them. He'd meant it plenty in the restaurant but swore it right then.

He'd spend the rest of his life atoning for his mistakes, using everything in his power to protect her.

3.5 The Original Hour of New Dawn

Willoughby sat up with a loud gasp, her entire body wracking with tremors as she patted about her until she managed to retrieve her phone from where it was deposited on a table beside her bed. Everything else was ignored for the task at hand.

The tears still streaming down her face in copious amounts were ignored. The intravenous drip to the back of her hand seemed even more insignificant as she powered on her cell phone.

The date that stared back at her had her pupils constricting in alarm.

January 1st, 2025.

It seemed like the reminder was all she needed for all the pain to come rushing back. Reliving how Arrow had brought her out of those bleak moments of her life. The hollow, mundane hours of routine Dallas had left her to deal with.

She had wondered at his request, six years ago, what more she had left to lose.

The answer was simple.

Quite a lot.

After all, there was nothing worse than crawling out of the quagmire and managing to climb to the highest peaks, only for support to be ripped from underneath you and to crash even lower.

She hadn't just been happy. She'd felt a sense of fulfillment finally making sense of her life and planning a future with him, thoughts of Dallas very much a thing of the past. They dated, fell in love, toured around, got married, toured some more, started planning towards a child.

She got pregnant, their days were filled with joy and excitement. She could imagine Harper smiling down at her from wherever, expectant too. Fast-forward to the previous night. It was new year's eve and the first one in the five years of their relationship they would be apart.

Work took him just two states over but who knew he'd push himself to come back to spend the new year with his expecting wife since Christmas was a flop for them. He appeared to have had a safe enough trip back. The problem arose on the final train that'd stop the next town over.

One catastrophic train derailment later, she was being called to the hospital. Unable to stand the news of her Arrow's sudden passing, the shock had her suddenly miscarrying. She'd had a number of near miscarriages carrying Harper and struggling to juggle her work and stress levels but never threatening enough she'd really lost her kid.

When she'd felt the blood trailing down her thighs, she'd hoped with everything in her that it was just a false alarm.

Elva, or Aubrey, or Ember, neither she nor Arrow had really come to a decision yet, hadn't survived. Her second baby girl was gone just like that.

Only three weeks into conception.

Couldn't get any worse? Willoughby felt like the ground had been cruelly ripped from underneath her feet.

Letting the phone drop to the white sheets covering her, raising her left hand to sob into her palm. When she felt the cold iron of her wedding band press into her face, she sobbed even harder.

Maybe she felt hollow, aimlessly going from one day to the next until Arrow brought in light that healed the wounds Dallas's return had reopened. Even then she really couldn't recall feeling so empty or desolate.

Her life was shitty and mundane.

Maybe she shouldn't have tried breaking out of it, wondering what she even had at stake in the first place.

Now, he was gone and she didn't even know what could even begin picking her up again.

She was shattered. A thousand tiny broken pieces of her being scattered in the expanse of a world that suddenly seemed all too wide for hollow old her.

The door to her ward clicked open.

"Lou."