A/N: this is my first major fanfic, and it really got out of hand. Enjoy, and R&R!

Claire Bennet gently closed the cover of her textbook and let it slip from her fingers to fall on the floor beside her armchair. Sighing, she ground the heels of her palms into her eyes, wishing she could rub out the tired grit under her lids. Even after 250-odd years of life, studying never got any easier. At least now she could study useful things, like business management or medicine, instead of merely becoming "accomplished". Suffice to say she had stitched enough samplers to last a lifetime, even one as long as hers.

Studying US history, however, was particularly unappealing. She had avoided taking this class like the plague, despite the fact that it was required; she knew it would only remind her of past friends and past lives, of technologies and old jokes no longer relevant to today. The events they discussed in dry, factual detail were far more real to her than they were to her classmates, and they left her drained for hours afterwards. She had had to ditch the days they covered the Civil War.

Standing, she twisted her back from side to side, relishing the muted pops the action sent through her. Looking at the grandfather clock propped against the wall of her comfortable Brooklyn apartment, she jerked in surprise--it was 3pm already; she had missed most of the day studying.

Well that settles it, she thought to herself. I am going for a walk. It was a beautiful September day, and she wouldn't stand for being inside for one more minute, not if she could help it.

Bending down to pick up her fallen textbook, she placed it neatly on the coffee table, then fished out the sandals that had disappeared under the couch. She slipped them on, straightened up, and danced to the entryway. There she scooped up her keys and purse and slipped out into the warm afternoon.

Picking a direction at random, she strolled, enjoying the sun raining boldly down on her upturned face. She didn't worry about sunburn; such concerns hadn't bothered her since she discovered, many years ago, that stray musket balls didn't kill her like they ought to. Her feet carried her without her paying attention to the path they took, and she gazed at the new/familiar/strange sights that lined the sidewalk. Despite having had decades to acclimatize to this new world she lived in, parking meters and newspaper dispensers still amazed her with their inventiveness, to say nothing of the cars that packed into every available parking spot. She still remembered the days when crossing the street threatened one's shoes with a smelly coating of horse manure, and the fastest speed known to man was no more than 30 miles per hour.

This day she turned down a street she had never seen before, taking her away from the relatively large avenue she currently traveled. It was quieter on this street, mostly residential with a few small businesses scattered about. The buildings were taller than the street was wide, offering a narrow, comfortably claustrophobic feel to the street that Claire found she had missed from earlier years. Slowing her pace, she window-shopped as she moseyed along on her journey to nowhere.

A gaudy neon sign, currently unlit, caught her eye from across the street. It was more or less flush against the fire escape next to it, but it was what it advertised that grabbed her. It proclaimed a clock shop, Gray & Sons, with an arrow pointing down toward the unassuming door below.

Claire felt her heart skip a beat. It always pleased her to see someone else cling to the old-fashioned ideals of maintenance rather than replacement in this day and age, and she had to admit--it was nice to see that the traditional trades had not been entirely been forsaken.

This particular trade, however, held a special place in her heart. Her grandfather had been a clock smith, and she had spent many a happy afternoon as a child mending the small projects that he gave her. Like so many of the people in her first life his face was blurry, as though seen through a layer of water, or through an irregular pane of glass made the old-fashioned way. She barely recalled his bushy white eyebrows, and of tugging on the queue that kept his hair out of the way. She remembered his smell clearly, however--a mix of pipe tobacco and the oil he used to grease the gears of his clocks.

She felt the sad half-smile work across her face, caught up in her memories. She didn't know why the past was forcing itself forward so powerfully all of a sudden; perhaps it was because of her blasted history homework, or maybe her hormones just had it in for her today. Either way, she couldn't really help herself when her feet started across the street, dodging around a parked van for a paper company along the way.

She heard a bell ring overhead as she entered the cool shade of the shop. The gentle ticking of the clocks covering every surface was surprisingly soothing to her, familiar a sound as it was, and a tension she didn't even know she was carrying eased out of her. This was a slice of her past come back to life. She smiled a genuine smile for the first time in what felt like ages.

Running her fingers along the edge of a glass case, she saw that it was displaying antique carriage clocks, much like the ones that graced her second husband's carriages. Just like that she was abruptly reminded that for all that this was familiar, it was not her time.

Sighing, Claire turned to face the counter, but there was no one there to greet her, no clerk to ask how he might be of assistance. Frowning, she called out. "Hello?" There was no response. "Is anyone there?"

Instead of a reply, she heard a muffled choking sound coming from the back of the shop. Eyes widening, she rushed around the front counter to the workroom. She knew that sound intimately, and it spurred her on.

Wheeling around the corner, she saw a man jerking and twisting from a rope hanging from a beam high above, choking as his airway closed under the pull of his own weight.

Without thinking she immediately skirted the desk between them as fast as her short legs could carry her, throwing her purse aside and scanning for something with which to cut the rope. A utility knife caught her eye, and she snatched it up, running back to the man thrashing from the ceiling, fingers clawing fruitlessly at his neck.

She was far too short to reach the rope. Even if she were to stand on the chair he had obviously kicked out from under himself she wouldn't quite be able to reach. Cursing her lack of height, she swept a heap of paperwork off the desk and clambered on top of it. Standing straight, she pushed out the razor blade, turned to face the man, whose eyes were by this time bulging out behind his glasses, face turning a distressing shade of purple, and commenced sawing at the rope over his head.

He kicked spasmodically as she sliced through the last strands, and he collapsed to the floor with a painful sounding thump. Jumping down from her perch, her nurse's training came flooding back as she checked his condition. She made sure his airway was clear, wincing as her hands passed over the ligature marks already blooming on his pale skin, checked his pulse and, pulling off his skewed glasses, his pupils. His face was rapidly regaining a normal color, and though his breath came out in agonizing chokes and wheezes, his respiration was returning to normal.

"Sir, I need you to listen to me. Are you alright?" She asked slowly and clearly as he regained a modicum of control over his breathing.

Staring at her with wild, haunted eyes, he whispered, "Forgive me." Then his face crumpled, and he curled toward her. Involuntarily her arms wrapped around his shaking shoulders as she wordlessly offered him comfort.

Claire didn't know how long she sat there, holding him as he sobbed out his hurt, but one thought circulated in her mind: What compelled this man to try and kill himself?