Bit of a time jump in this chapter. Rick's been in Vancouver for about a year and a half.

Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something

Upon which to rejoice

—T. S. Eliot, "Ash Wednesday"

X

Castle gazes at the monitor of his laptop; his fingertips hover over the keys. The writing's been slow this morning. Well, it's always slow now. It's hard to believe he ever was able to bang out a book in just a few months. Those days are probably long gone now.

He doesn't mind. He's happy to be writing at all.

He saves the document and shuts down the laptop. Leaning back on the sofa, he cracks his back and his neck. He really should get a desk and an ergonomic chair for his writing, but he's afraid he'll jinx things. He knows what works for now, and he's loath to do anything else.

Take right now, for instance. He knows that when he's hit a roadblock, a change of scene will usually help him get past it. He sets the laptop, his notes, and his phone in a pile, and sets about getting to his feet. This would be an easy task were it not for Macavity, the big Maine coon he adopted from a shelter a few months after he moved to Haven Cove; Macavity likes to stretch out and nap on Castle's feet when he's writing, and doesn't like being rousted when his master needs food or a bathroom break or a change of scene.

"Time to relocate," Castle says, and Macavity grudgingly moves to the ottoman over by the fireplace. The cat is familiar enough with his master's habits to know that later tonight there'll be a fire, and he can nap on Castle's lap for hours while Castle reads or watches a movie or just gazes out at the Pacific Ocean.

His house, perched right on the coast with the sea on one side and the woods on the other, is far smaller than the one in the Hamptons (which he sold when he moved from New York). Two bedrooms: one for him and one for a guest. Said guest is most frequently Alexis, who visits every couple months, on occasion his mother, and last autumn Jim stayed for a week. His bedroom is at the rear of the house, with tall pines visible out every window; at night he can hear the wind sighing in the trees and the waves' endless breaking and receding.

The house has a fair number of mementoes from the loft; just enough to be familiar and comforting, not so many that this new home is a reproduction of the past. At one end of the living room, just by the entrance to his bedroom, is Kate's painting, the one that hung by the stairs back in the loft; beside the painting is a framed photo of them on their wedding day.

But it's the other end of the living room, with the front door, that he passes now. On the wall at this end is another painting, one he bought not long after he moved here. It's in a style that reminds him of Monet, showing a seashore with a half-stormy, half-sunny sky above—so much like that day on the beach when he felt Kate's presence that it gives him pause sometimes. Whenever there are bad times (fewer of them now, but they still happen), he thinks of that day, of Kate's hand on the back of his head, of the way the very air seemed to sigh when he said he forgave her—and he has the strength to go on. Looking at this painting gives him much the same feeling. That's why he writes in this room despite the lack of a desk and the attendant backaches: with Kate's painting at one end of the room and the seascape on the other, with the rustle of trees behind him and the windows looking out on the ocean before him, and a cat purring on top of his feet, it's a place of comfort to him.

It's not his only place of comfort here in Haven Cove, and he heads to one of the others now. The bells on the door of Impressions jingle as he walks in with his laptop and notebook tucked under one arm, breathing deep the scent of mingled coffee, tea, chocolate, and spices. "Hey, Laura," he calls out to the assistant manager.

She smiles and waves at him. "Hi, Rick." The colorful streak through her hair is peacock blue this week. He always likes seeing what new spin she's put on her hair; he jots it down and lets Alexis know—his daughter likes Haven Cove and on her visits they've spent time here at Impressions. When he gets settled in his favorite chair, Laura leaves the coffee bar in the hands of the barista and walks over to him. "Your usual? Or we've got a new drink with Mexican chocolate."

"Twist my arm," he says. Castle starts opening his laptop, getting his notes situated, putting his phone on vibrate.

"How's Macavity?" she asks after she relays his order to the barista.

"I'm thinking of renaming him Lunchbox. Either they weren't feeding him enough at the shelter or I'm feeding him too much."

Laura laughs and goes to get his beverage.

Ever since he moved to Haven Cove, this has been one of his favorite places. It's homey, with shelves full of books that the patrons can borrow from or donate to, a chessboard set up in one corner, open mike night on Tuesdays, book club on Thursdays, a music selection that ranges from beatnik jazz to The Cure, and paintings by local artists hanging on the walls. In fact, he bought the seascape he finds so comforting here. Best money he's spent so far, other than the cost of adopting Macavity.

He's soon settled into one of his favorite chairs. By the time Laura brings his beverage he's already immersed back in the story, his fingers tapping out the words.

They come slowly, more slowly than they've ever come since he first started writing, back when he was a kid and had no idea what he was doing. In a way, it feels like learning to write all over again. It's the first thing he's ever written that wasn't some kind of mystery, but he's lost his taste for mystery. He supposes it's literary fiction, though he doesn't care about genre, doesn't even really care about publication; he hasn't told anyone but Alexis and his mother that he's writing. He's not sure what the final title will be. For now he calls it The Silences Unbroken, from Ovid's telling of the myth of Orpheus and Euridice. He's pouring everything into the story: his love, his grief, his sorrow and anger. All of it.

He spends several hours at Impressions, writing, pausing only for sips of coffee that the baristas keep topped up for him. Before he leaves, he stops by the bar to settle the bill; this system was Laura's idea, and it works well for him—it keeps him caffeinated without breaking his creative spell. As he's putting his change in the tip jar, she asks, "How's the book coming?"

His heart gives an unpleasant thud. As far as he knows, here he's just a guy named Rick. Being Richard Castle, famous author and crime-solver, is another thing that's lost its appeal. "How do you know it's a book? It could be spreadsheets or an annual report," he says as lightheartedly as he knows how.

Laura chuckles, puffs a strand of blue-streaked hair out of her face. "Please. No one looks that intense about an annual report. Or if they do, I don't want to know about it."

"It's going well," he tells her. "Thanks, as always. And thanks for the Mexican chocolate."

When he gets home, the mail has come. There's a letter from his mother; she writes him once every couple weeks. E-mail would be cheaper, given postage to Canada, but she says it's too impersonal. He saves the evenings for correspondence from friends and family, reading letters and e-mails and making phone or Skype calls by the fireside, with Macavity in his lap. It's a little surprising, the people from New York who stay in touch. LT makes sure to send him the Twelfth Precinct's newsletter. Ryan e-mails regularly with news of Jenny and the kids and the desk job he took not long after Castle moved away. Lanie said she would stay in touch but never does. And oddly enough, he gets Christmas cards from Gates; maybe she didn't hate him after all.

Tonight he's expecting Alexis to Skype him, but the phone rings and it's Espo on the line. That's unusual. Usually he hears from Espo in texts or while playing Destiny or Halo. "Javi. How are you?"

"Okay. I mean, mostly." Espo's words are a bit slurred, and in the background Castle can hear the sounds of a bar. He wonders if it's the Old Haunt, which he still owns. "Not so good, actually."

"What is it?"

"No, never mind. I shouldn't…"

Only one subject could make Esposito so reticent. Castle steels himself and says, "It's all right. Tell me."

"I don't know what to do," Esposito says. "I've been through every case file, chased down anything that even looked like a lead. There's nothing. Nothing."

Castle's heart sinks, though this is hardly unexpected. It's been nearly two years now, and there are no answers. He's known in his heart for some time that there never will be, and he's made a sort of peace with that. But he's not certain that Espo can ever do the same.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this, Castle. I want to find out what happened, but I'm one disciplinary action away from losing my badge forever."

"Kate wouldn't want—"

Espo doesn't seem to hear. "I'd be happy to be a rent-a-cop if it meant finding out what happened. But I just can't keep beating my head against this wall. It's too…it's…"

"I know what it's like," he says as gently as he can.

"I know you do." Espo takes a deep breath. "I'm going to let it go. Maybe one day I can go back to it, but not now. Not for a while. I understand if you don't want…It's been good to have you as a friend—"

"Javi, please. I'd never hold that against you." He'd always thought that Javi had held it against him that he'd fled New York. He'd never imagined it the other way around. "It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." After a moment, he asks, "Did you tell Ryan?"

"I was going to call him next. I haven't seen him or talked to him since he transferred."

Silence falls. Castle thinks about the fractures that Kate's death has caused, not just in his life but in Ryan's, Espo's, Jim's, Lanie's…who knows how many others. "I've thought about it so much, Javi, what happened to Kate and…I think that if we never know the answers, it's because she wanted it that way. I think it was protection of some kind. Her life for ours. We wouldn't have any answers, but we'd be safe. That's what I tell myself, anyway."

"You believe it?"

"Most of the time."

"I guess I can believe it too."

X

Alexis Skypes him not long after he gets off the phone with Espo. He does his best to put the call to the back of his mind and focus only on his daughter. She's working for the Environmental Protection Agency now, investigating reports of possible contamination in local parks and waterways. In recent calls she's talked a lot about one of the lab fellows she works with, and so he says, "How's Nicholas? Are you two bonding over…I don't know, Geiger counter readouts?"

"Soil samples, Dad. Nothing like little jars of dirt to inspire romantic feelings. We're going to the movies tomorrow night. How's the writing?"

"Good. May do a bit more tonight."

She looks a bit worried though she says nothing. She knows that at times he gets so caught up in the writing that he forgets to eat and goes without sleep. But she also knows what a comfort the writing is to him, and if it's a kind of drug, it's a better one than pills or booze.

Up until early this year, he honestly thought he would never write again. Castle still isn't sure how the spark came back. There was no catalyst as far as he can recall. He just woke one morning, feeling restless in a way that was very familiar and half-forgotten; it had taken him a little while to realize it was the desire—no, the need—to write. He'd sat down before his laptop with no story in mind, no outline or plan, just a blank page before him. Hours later he'd looked in mild disbelief at the words. Since then he's written every day. The words don't come as easily as they used to, but they're there, and he's grateful for them. They give him yet another reason to go on.

X

From The New York Times book review section, one year later:

It is all too tempting to see Mr. Castle's literary fiction debut as an attempt to reinvent his career after the mixed reception and poor sales of the final book of his Nikki Heat series, but The Silences Unbroken is powerful enough to dismiss all but the most cynical reader's qualms after the first few pages. A tale of the aftermath of grief and the search for answers in the wake of loss, the novel has remarkable emotional power—so much so that at times it comes close to being overwhelming. However, it is always rescued from melodrama by Mr. Castle's command of character and narrative. Though the novel's journey is, at times, a difficult one, it is also emotionally rewarding, and easily one of the more memorable novels published so far this year.

The day the review appears in the paper, just about everyone he knows calls to tell him about it and congratulate him. But it's a package that arrives two days later that touches him the most: a framed copy of the review, with an accompanying note signed by Alexis, his mother, Jim, Paula, Gina, and most everyone he knows from the Twelfth. He's happy to see all their names and congratulatory wishes, but it's Jim's that brings tears to his eyes: Wherever she is, Katie's proud of you, Rick. He thinks of that day on the beach, of Kate's comforting touch, and is certain his father-in-law is right.

He does no book signings or interviews; the book's too personal for interviews, and he wouldn't be able to go to a signing without thinking (hoping? fearing?) that he might hear a much-loved voice say: Kate. You can make it out to Kate. Paula and his mother send him the good reviews (there are a few bad ones, he finds out later, mostly ones chiding him for daring to step outside the crime novel genre), but for the most part his life goes back to what it was before he started writing again. He reads a great deal, makes friends at a local writer's group, takes some cooking classes. He's thinking of getting some sort of teaching position at UBC or maybe Vancouver Community College.

One day, he walks into Impressions and starts to call out a hello to Laura, only to be taken somewhat aback by her hair, which has wide black streaks in the blond. "I know, I know," she says with a rueful smile. "I was going for 'tiger' and ended up with 'bumblebee.'"

"I like bumblebees," he says, knowing instantly how inane it is. It hangs in the air for a moment, and Laura looks at him in a peculiar way, as if they aren't actually talking about bumblebees. "Tigers are overrated. Anyway," he says, "I have a question. Do you have a second?"

"Sure." She steps over by the pastry display, which is mostly depleted now that the morning rush is over. "What's up?"

"A long while back, I bought a painting from here. It really…spoke to me. Got me through a…well, it's called After the Storm. Artist is L. R. Miller. It was inspirational to me, when I was working on my book, and I wanted…"

He stops, taken aback by the look on Laura's face. It's a look not unlike the one he probably wore when he got the reviews for his book. "Oh," she says, blue-gray eyes wide. "Jimmy told me someone bought it, but he never told me it was you."

"You painted it." Of course. He'd have put it together sooner but she's always just been Laura, or Laura of the Colorful Hair as he refers to her when he talks to Alexis. "It's lovely, it really is. I don't know how many times I looked at it when I was writing the book."

"I'm so glad," she says. "And your book…is it published? You probably think I'm a jerk for not knowing, but I don't read much fiction. Just art histories and biographies. I can tell you what a bastard Degas was but nothing about what's on the bestseller list, and I'm sorry. I'm babbling."

"That's OK," he says with a smile. "I babble all the time myself."

"It's just that I mostly do the paintings just for me, so when someone buys one or says they liked it, I get flustered." She runs her hands through her bumblebee hair, glances toward the bar, where the queue is getting long.

"I didn't mean to fluster you. I just wanted to say thanks."

She smiles, radiantly. "You're welcome. And thank you." Laura starts toward the bar, and then turns back to him. "Rick, are you free this weekend? There's an exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery I've been wanting to see. Would you be interested? Maybe get a drink afterward?"

X

"And?" Alexis asks.

"Don't leave us hanging, Richard. What did you say?" his mother says.

Oh, how he rues the day Alexis taught Martha to Skype. Alexis is in New York, having brought Nicholas to meet her grandmother, and now they're both staring at him out of his iPad screen, waiting for his answer.

"I didn't say much of…to be honest, I just kind of stumbled all over my words, and she said, 'It's okay then, never mind it.'" He leaves out how she'd turned red with embarrassment and how she'd seemed inordinately focused on her inventory sheet when he left the coffeehouse.

His mother rolls her eyes. Alexis says, "Dad, I thought you liked her."

"I did. I do." He does. He likes talking with her and sharing a joke; she's one of the first friends he made here, and—she makes him content. "I just didn't expect…I thought I was just a customer. It took me by surprise."

That was putting it mildly. It's not that he thinks interest in another woman is showing disloyalty to Kate. It's that he honestly hasn't considered the idea of romantic involvement. He fears that there isn't anything left in him to give; he buried it when he buried Kate. He says, "Well, it wouldn't be much of a bargain for her. I'm kind of damaged goods. And anyway, I'm not sure I want anything like this right now."

They look at each other and then at him; he realizes that they've talked about this topic among themselves. "Richard, you are a big-hearted, generous, loving man who deserves to have someone to care for in your life," his mother says.

Then his daughter chimes in: "Maybe the thing to ask yourself isn't if this is what you want, but if it's what you need."

X

He sits out on the beach, in his favorite spot. His thinking place. How many times has he come here in the last few years? He's long ago lost count.

Castle ponders his mother's and daughter's words. Does he deserve to have someone in his life? He honestly can't say. Two failed marriages, one wife lost to death. Not exactly a stellar track record. As for what he wants, there's no question. If he could have anything, it would be to have his life with Kate back, and to take what he knows now and change things so that they end up with the life he'd always wanted for them, a long, happy marriage and a child or two. He'd sell his soul for that, change his name to Faust in a heartbeat, but no Mephistophelian figure has shown up with a contract in hand.

But if the past cannot be changed and there are no second chances, where does that leave him now?

He's been resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. It's something he's thought about during those long nights when sleep eludes him. It's not that he enjoys being alone. He rather hates it, especially in the months since he finished the book. He hates waking up by himself, having no one at home to talk to except Macavity. He hasn't had any physical contact with another person that wasn't his family in who knows how long. He's lonely. But maybe he doesn't have to be. He'll never love anyone the way he loved Kate, but that doesn't mean he never has to love again.

What does he need? Someone he can talk to, laugh with, care for. Someone who likes him for who he is, for just being Rick. And who knows, there's always the chance that he could have what he's always needed: someone who's happy with being Mrs. Richard Castle.

He blinks, looks around. He's been so lost in thought that he hasn't noticed his feet have carried him to the sidewalk outside Impressions. He smiles. Even if Laura of the Many-Colored Hair isn't the one, he knows what he needs: to step inside and give her a real answer to her question.

A sudden breeze blows up, seeming to nudge him toward the door. Castle takes a deep breath, opens the door, and walks in.

One of my many complaints about the current season is that Beckett seems to have given no consideration to what would happen to the people in her life, and especially Castle, if she's unsuccessful in her quest against LockSat. Considering what she's up against, this seems a serious thing to overlook and I'm not sure if this comes from hubris or denial on her part. Of course, because the show is what it is, she'll be successful one way or another. But I thought of how devastated Castle would be if Beckett was killed pursuing LockSat and he was out of the loop. This had the potential to be life-ruining. At the same time, I felt that Castle, with his good heart and his capacity to love, deserved a hopeful ending, if not a happily-ever-after one. I've tried to give him that.

I want to thank everyone who left such wonderful reviews for this story. I didn't intend for it to be quite this long (I think it was originally supposed to be a one-shot), but I'm happy that people seem to have enjoyed it.