AN: Dedicated to Medic; I hope she doesn't find this. Excerpts slightly edited for pronoun changes and synchronization with the Code Lyoko universe was otherwise completely extracted from my second, unpublished memoir. POV appears to change, but it is centered on Aelita, as these are her musings. "We" referred to Aelita and an 'offscreen' character and was left as is; the original memoir was meant to be vague and a parody of more well known writers' writing styles.

A window, depending on the condition of its cleanliness, is for the most part transparent. It allows one to see inside of otherwise opaque objects, such as the haphazard interior of a long-abandoned house in the middle of the forest, for example. Metaphorically, it can have the same effect, being that one can use a figurative one to allow another to open a portal into the past, to live vicariously through the person's tales. And very much like a window, the three hour looped song humming low in the CD player's speakers provided a sated state akin to very mild sedation, as if she were lying on lush green grass and staring at the sunny, cloud-dotted skies as gentle breezes play with her disheveled locks instead of being curled up into a very small ball and weeping bitterly on a couch while one of her dorm-mates tries to provide comfort.

A window, unless by certain circumstances or through the intervention of suspicious persons that well should be monitored by a continuous loop of persons monitoring other persons monitoring other persons, has its view uninhibited. In an undamaged state, it separates nothing but the elements, regardless of origin. And like a window, nothing was censored or removed; truly, it was a reflection of her soul.

A soft hand marred by many overgrown cuts and scrapes from countless XANA attacks absentmindedly reached up and toyed with the thin wire before probing further and laying on top of the blonde girl's hand in a silent gesture of gratitude.

Perhaps now she'd like to switch tracks from the 3 hour-long looped song to the dance remix she'd been working on. Perhaps she'd want to listen to it later, when her interrupted sleep schedule demanded it and needed a lullaby to help her along. Perhaps she'd forgo opening it all together and just lay there in a drug-induced stupor.

In the darkness, an empty bottle of sleeping pills teeter off the nearby nightstand and clatter on the thinly-carpeted flooring. Doll eyes stare into Valium-colored skies.

Her breathing slows, and she feels, rather than sees, her new-found friend sidle up next to her and encompass her tiny, frail body in a much-needed embrace.

The best time to cry is at night, when nobody can see the saltwater tears streaking from reddened eyes onto scarlet, swollen cheeks. Everyone always says they'd be there for one another when they needed them the most, always there to support you at your worst, but when push comes to shove, there's nobody there, save for a special few.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

It's raining.

You've known that.

You've always known.

And since you're a perfectionist, you would have re-created her here in the simulation- that is, unless you weren't REALLY my father!

Stay away from me, XANA!

Last week's echoes intermingling with dreams of the present spiral down an ever-circling drain as dead eyes open to greet the world once more, the former now nothing more than a memory now, and a distant one at best.

The rain comes down in slight angles. It wasn't the light drizzle you'd expect after a week of stifling heat, nor was it the type of rain that came from the ground while trudging through the murky swamps of Vietnam while led by a half-crazed man named Lt. Dan; it was the type of rain you'd see in music videos, where the artist would sit by a window and sigh dramatically as the camera panned. Maybe there'd be a close-up. Maybe the music would linger in the air for a while as gentle notes punctuated the silence with bursts of energy, then fade away like stars in daybreak.

But there's no music.

There's nothing, save for the airy tune in her head, of what she heard the day before. Something she'd hum quietly at night while terrible thoughts plagued her mind, tormenting her psyche with demons of the past.

A vision, a nightmare.

Someone she loved as a friend, a family member, a hero.

A scarlet dress, or maybe it was magenta. Slices of green sandwiched between walls of silver. Pink case. Open toed sandals. Perhaps they were raised and fashioned after pumps; perhaps they were platforms- pictures recall everything, and yet nothing.

Orange. We found its twin sitting on a stand, looking at the world with sunken eyes from atop its plastic pedestal. No tag, no identifying number or name. Was it a man, elevated to such great heights that he loses himself or his greater mantle, his identity, or was it a model of a worldly fellow, worn by the world and all its peoples?

Round and round we went, side by side, like we were joined at the hip. Nobody dared to stare, not when rose colored glasses, wafting aromas from the food court, and bright, twinkling lights shielded us from view. Laughing, we typed messages in fruit stands and left them for passer-byes to shake their heads and move on, phasing through glass like water and pitying its current state of affairs.

She lifted her head, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, smiled.

Gone, gone, gone, all in the blink of an eye.

Was it so long ago?

Wee woo, wee woo. Cooper, or was it Connor? The letter says it's neither of the two, but she says not to trust them. "For-hire lawyers", she says over the phone, when you idly mention it to her, "like sharks looking for prey".

Was there blood?

Was there innocence? The purest embodiment of the soul. Forgive, and forget.

But… I remember...

Red, white, and...

Gone, gone, gone.

It's slipping away now, like the last vestiges of a dream before waking. Grab them! Grab onto the coattails and hang on for dear life! Never forget! Always remember that...

I love…

The figure turns away, its body cycling between the realm of the living and the dead. Brown eyes ringed with the faintest tinge of green widen.

Gone.

It's cold.

Her skin tingles as goose bumps formed and the minute hairs growing along the length of the limb rose in a vain attempt to maintain body heat. The cuffs of her jeans are now thoroughly soaked, and they uncomfortably stick to her calves.

Ears twitched once at the recognition of a familiar sound, curious and curiouser.

She continued walking.

Maybe someone was calling her name. Maybe it was a trick of the wind; the group hadn't particularly talked to each other as much after the supercomputer's deactivation- perhaps carving out small spheres of isolation was their way of preserving and savoring the memories.

She stops as a modestly sized building loomed over her, partially shielding her mop of pink hair from any further watery insult.

Home.

'Ahead is your domicile, your castle', they've always said, expounding on the symphonies each living space creates if one had the time and patience to listen.

But the gentle, steady trickling of water into sewer grates near her sodden boots provides a light tinkling melody of its own, comparable to that of the faint, almost irresistible notes of music boxes. And despite the chill in the air, and clingy damp jeans sticking to her skin and sending uncontrollable spasms through her leg, she stops. She stares. She listens to the music that is nature. Of life.

Breathe it in.

Take it with you as you go.

Who says you can't go home?

AN: "...Phasing through glass like water…": Visiting a Microsoft store
Fruit stand: Apple store. The message in question was "If 'pro' is the opposite of 'con', what is the opposite of 'progress'?"

May write an addition depending on if I want to return to a writing career or not.

Inspirational Music: "Window", by the Album Leaf; "Can't Hold Us", cover by Pentatonix; "Exile Vilify", by The Nationals; "Standing Still", by Jewel, and "Telephone", instrumental cover by Aston.