A/N: This idea came to me as I was drifting off to sleep one night, and as soon as I thought of it, I wanted to read that fic. When I sat down to write it, it quickly became one of the hardest things I've ever attempted. I started over, wanted to give up constantly, and am finally in a place where I feel I can begin posting- but you need to know that due to an inconsistent RL, there may be gaps between updates. I wanted to give the idea away to one of the other talented writers in this fandom but I was too shy to suggest it. Instead, I have butchered and blundered my way through on my own, so please forgive me for any places where I've had to bend canon to make the story work- by it's nature, this story is slightly AU.

This story is dedicated to the wonderful, talented authors on this site who give me something new to smile about or weep over every day. Truly, you bless me and you bring me so much joy by sharing your amazing work.

Castle belongs to Andrew Marlowe and ABC. Blame them for writing such compelling characters who won't let me go until I've taken them out and let them run around the block a few times, before it starts too get dark and we all have to go back in.

"Death cannot stop True Love. It can only delay it for a little while."

-Westley, The Princess Bride

It was a door.

Just a door.

She could knock on a door.

Really. She could do it.

Taking a deep breath, she abstractly ran fingers through her salt-and-pepper hair. Someone had once told her she did that as a stalling device. Well, she sure was stalling.

How hard is it to lift one's fist and knock?

Clutching the old fashioned carpet bag to her side in a vice like grip, she closed her eyes. Her free hand fisted at her side, but for the life of her, she couldn't lift it.

It wasn't so much the door, really. It was that he was behind it. She knew he was there. In her debrief, she had been given his address, told that he still lived in their their knowledge, he lived alone. From the street below she had seen the lights on, the movement of a familiar shadow in the window, the flicker of the television.

She hadn't seen him in 14 years, almost to the day. And she couldn't even begin to imagine what his reaction was going to be.

Fourteen years ago, she had done the most despicable thing a wife could do to her husband. Now, finally, she could tell him the truth. But the truth was that she had made him walk through the fiery pits of hell, and now he was about to find out it was all based on a lie. She had no idea whether or not he was going to forgive her. No idea how he was going to receive her. All she knew was that she had been dreaming of this moment for fourteen long years, and now that it was finally upon her, she was petrified.

She leaned her forehead against the door jam, staring unseeingly at the apartment number. Reaching out slender fingers, she traced the numbers slowly, reveling in the solid feel of the door in front of her, the door she had been aching to walk through every single day of her exile.

She couldn't do it.

She couldn't knock.

He had moved on. He must have moved on. Surely. It had been fourteen years. Even if he hadn't seen the crime scene photos, identified the body, organized the funeral- even if he had held hope that she was somehow still alive out there- she had still been gone twice the time needed to be presumed and legally declared dead. He owed her nothing. For all she knew, he might be seeing someone. Perhaps he was even engaged, or the information she had been given was out of date, and he had remarried. He was well within his rights to do so. A small corner of her, the part of her that genuinely wished him true happiness, almost wished it was so. He deserved to be happy. He deserved to be free of her. For all their happiness before they had been torn apart, she had brought him nothing but misery since, and she refused to begrudge him any solace he might have found now. If he had moved on, good. She would hold her head high, tell him the truth, and wish him well.

But she didn't want him to be with anyone else. She waited fourteen interminable, agonizing years for him, dammit, and the thought of finding him with someone else turned her stomach, caused bile to rise to the back of her throat. She knew it was ridiculous. She had been dead. And now, fourteen years later, she expected him to stand by the vows they made to one another before God a lifetime ago? She could still hear his deep, resonant voice repeating after the priest- 'Till death do us part. Well, death had parted them, as far as he was aware. He was released. Their vows didn't count any more, even though she had been faithful to him, ached for him, and felt his absence every day for the past fourteen years.

She just needed to see him. Just once. Just see him and hopefully get the chance to explain and wish him well. Just to look into his beautiful eyes one more time, that's all she could ask for. To get to inhale his scent. She wondered if he still smelled the same, that unique mixture of paper and spice and man. Maybe, just maybe, he would hug her as she she graciously wished him and whatever woman he was with all the best, because surely he was too good a catch to not have been snapped up by now. Just maybe he would hug her goodbye, and she would get to feel the strength of his arms around her one last time, the breadth of his shoulders, the press of his chest against her own... And then she could leave, clear out his life again for good. Let him carry on with whomever he had chosen to replace her. He might regret it and it might upset him for a while, but if she had the chance to explain, to tell him that he was forgiven for moving on- that's all she asked for.

She knew this was selfish. If it wasn't selfish, she would stay dead to him. She wouldn't disrupt his life all over again. She would let him go on thinking he was free to move on- as, legally, he was. If he was still the man she married, still the man of integrity she had respected and admired and yearned for, he would be upset by her coming here tonight-he would feel like he had somehow betrayed her by moving forward. Perhaps it would be for the best if she simply disappeared without seeing him. She was finally free to start a new life with a new identity- they had offered that to her. She could still take them up on it and he would never be any the wiser. She would always love him, of course, always stay faithful to him. For even though she was dead to him, she had sworn once before God and man 'Till death do us part, and she would honor that vow until she really did breathe her last breath.

But could she live with herself, knowing that he didn't know? That the reason he didn't know was because even when she was finally free to tell him the truth, she still will fully withheld it? They had always prided themselves on their communication, on always telling each other the truth. Her unbending quest for truth, after all, is what got her into this position in the first place. She knew he would never forgive her if he found out through a third party. She would never forgive herself if she did not take this opportunity to confess. She had to do it.

She had to do it.

Even though it wasn't the easiest option- even though it was selfish, would disrupt his life completely, and quite possibly ruin any happy memories he had held on to through the years- she had to do it. Anything less than the absolute truth would require her to step beyond the bounds of her own integrity, to deviate from the plum line of veracity she had sworn to live her life no matter how hard or how uncomfortable the truth might be- no matter how inconvenient or disruptive, no matter if he shunned her and threw her out of his life as she deserved- no matter what the consequences, she had to see this through. She had to tell him.

She straightened her slim shoulders and took a deep breath. She could do it.

Steeling herself, she raised her trembling fist and rapped on the door.