So this is the final chapter. Wow, it's been a while since I finished something! Starting things, on the other hand, it appears I'm very good at. Thank you to everyone who's taken an interest in this story!

Warning for a graphic suicide scene in this chapter, which I'm truly sorry about.

...

Autumn, 1916, four years later

…

Blood stains were frustratingly hard to remove.

Érzsebét stepped over them- black and faint, seemingly burnt into the wooden floor- and strode over to the door. She tried not to look at the wheelchair in the corner, recently bought and already out of use, or the tiny box on the mantle piece filled with a handful of someone else's precious possessions that she wasn't sure what to do with. She tucked a lock of hair- which had fallen out of her plait- behind her ear, and walked out of the tiny apartment she had moved into last year. It was close to the Vargas' restaurant- where she had been promoted to waitress after a few months- but gave her some space of her own. Too much space, if she was honest. It had been fine when it was her and Alin, and their bickering and jokes filled the place, but now...

She brushed her fingers against her plait. The ribbon was still in place.

The air outside was cold and crisp that morning as Érzsebét walked past dead leaves covering the pavement. A few motor cars and bicycles passed along the road next to her, and people bustled past her on their way to work, but she was generally ignored. Her shoes tapped against the concrete below her as she stepped aside to avoid a group of pigeons.

She turned into a smaller street, revelling in the late autumn sun on her face.

Then she entered the cemetery.

It was just like the countless other times she'd visited in the past six months on her days off: grey and dreary, rows of headstones in neat lines, grass and weeds growing between them. Some of the headstones were new, bright lettering shining in the sun whilst others were old and crumbling, some kept in relatively good condition whilst others had been left to fall apart, with no loved ones alive to tend them. A murder of crows cawed in a tree in the corner.

Érzsebét walked briskly to the grave she came to visit, twisting and turning along the path until she reached it:

Alin Radacanu

1892-1916

May his soul finally be at peace.

She sat down on the grass at the foot of the grave, sighing as she stared at the fresh, clean lettering.

"Morning, Radacanu," Érzsebét spoke with a whisper; "sleep well?" As expected, the world around her remained silent.

…

As usual, it had been a long day at work, and Érzsebét hoped that Alin wouldn't be his usual snarky, embittered self. It was a shame that he didn't get many opportunities to speak to other people, since their relationship had gone from bad to worse in the past few months and the only time he seemed to open his mouth was to snap at her or cry out softly in his sleep. He'd quit work after they moved, claiming he didn't want Érzsebét carrying him down the stairs each day because it was too humiliating, and he didn't want to ask for his old room at the restaurant back. Mr Vargas still sent him sewing to do for a small wage, so he had something to do, but he wasn't getting any sunlight or fresh air.

He denied all of Érzsebét's offers to take him out for a walk though, and he couldn't get out by himself. He just sat in his bed or wheelchair all day, glaring at the wall opposite. He hadn't left the house in months.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't worried about him.

She walked up the steep, wooden stairs in the dimly lit hallway to her apartment, wincing as her sore joints protested at the movements. She'd spent all day running between tables and was exhausted, and looking forward to relaxing. Still, at least her close friendship with Marianne and the Vargas brothers made things bearable. The middle child, Feliciano reminded her of Franz in many ways, and the thought that those two would never meet pained her. The sun had long gone down and her mind was filled with images of her warm bed, all thought of Alin and his problems pushed to one side.

She leaned heavily against the door for a moment whilst she caught her breath, and instead caught the sickening scent of blood.

Érzsebét practically slammed the keys into the door as she tried to open it with trembling hands. Bile rose in her throat as she threw the thing open- ignoring how the handle smashed against the thin wall, leaving a dent- and stumbled into her single room.

There was Alin, lying dead in a puddle of his own blood.

He lay on his back in the middle of the room, arms spread and face staring unseeing at the door. A messy gash crossed his throat, and even now, blood continued to bubble out and join the drying stuff on the floor and Alin's clothes. His face was blue from suffocation, eyes bulging out of their sunken sockets as more blood dribbled from his mouth.

Érzsebét gagged as she ran forward, checking for a heartbeat even though she knew it was futile. He must have been dead for at least an hour now.

A kitchen knife was held in the palm of his stiff hand, and she kicked it away before it could inflict any more harm, not wanting to touch the thing. It skidded across the floor and hit the wall, spraying tiny bloodspots across the wood.

"What have you done to yourself?" she sighed as she stared down at the other's expression, frightened and screaming regret. Tears began to burn her eyes as she pushed his hair out of his forehead with a trembling hand.

More blood stained his nightshirt, thin lines of dried droplets running down his torso, and she lifted the nightshirt up to find more cuts, shallow this time. There were similar marks on his arms, like he was trying to drag out his pain, to ruin his body further. The amount of self-hatred he must have been harbouring…

An envelope was clutched in his other hand, crumpled and splattered with red droplets. After a moment's hesitation, Érzsebét took the envelope and stuffed it down her boot; she would read his suicide note later.

Right now, all she could focus on was trying to convince the outside world it wasn't a suicide.

"Help!" she cried, running into the hall and banging on her neighbour's door, "murder!" she slammed her palms against the next door down, continuing along the corridor and shouting at the top of her voice. "Get the police! Someone help!"

…

"Are you happy wherever you are?" Érzsebét asked, crouched down in front of the headstone, pulling a pair of scissors from her bag and snipping away at the overgrown grass surrounding it.

"Have you met Tsvetan and Andrei again?"

These were questions she asked every time. Érzsebét knew it was silly and childish, but talking to Alin made her feel better about the whole thing, even if he would never hear her or reply again.

"Are they glad to see you again? Though they were probably watching you the whole time, you know? I wager they're pretty cross with you, even now."

She looked at the writing on the grave and sighed.

"I'm still cross with you too. Dammit, you should've talked to me about this! I could've helped you, or at least made sure you were somewhere where you couldn't hurt yourself."

A few other people entered the graveyard from time to time, ignoring her and making their way to the graves of their own friends and relatives.

"I guess things would be even more awkward between us if you were still here," she began, "apparently your country is at war with mine. And Tsvetan's, if I recall. Hope that isn't causing any problems up there."

She set the scissors down.

"Why did you have to leave me alone like this?"

…

Érzsebét sat in the corner of the room, sobbing as police examined Alin's body and plied her with questions. She wrapped her arms around her torso, crying like a sailor's wife staring at a storm. She couldn't bring herself look at Alin again.

She claimed her room mate had been murdered, and that she'd found his body. Of course, only the last part was true.

She couldn't tell anyone the truth. She couldn't allow Alin's memory to be ruined by the judgements of his neighbours, who would call him terrible things without understanding his situation. They would shun him without a hint of compassion, and make sure he couldn't be buried properly. They didn't know what Tsvetan meant to him, and could never know. Even hearing about Andrei's death, and how Alin blamed himself for it wouldn't offer him any sympathy. He'd committed the ultimate sin, the one thing that couldn't be forgiven, that allowed no chance to repent. And that was unacceptable to them.

She never liked Alin, but Érzsebét didn't want people to hate him for the effects of his own grief. And besides, she was used to keeping his darkest secrets by now.

"Do you know who could have done it?" one of the officers asked.

"I… I don't," Érzsebét shook her head, "he didn't know anyone. Didn't go outside ever."

"Do you know any motives for someone to murder him?"

"Not him personally. Maybe there was a burglar who just wanted no witnesses?"

"Possibly, but nothing seems to be disturbed. It doesn't even look like he put up much of a fight."

That's because he didn't. "Maybe he was set on from behind?"

"Who knows? But don't worry madam, we'll find out who killed your…"

"Friend."

"Friend. Well, we'll get to the bottom of this."

Érzsebét knew they never would. Not only because there was no murderer, but because they would soon lose interest. What did they care about some penniless, disabled immigrant?

Alin would be forgotten within weeks.

…

"The neighbours aren't talking to me any more," Érzsebét commented, starting to snip at the grass again, "because of the fighting back in Europe. Because my country is fighting with Russia and some other places for reasons none of us really know. You would probably stop talking to me too, since our countries are fighting as well."

She leaned back and sighed.

"It's not very comforting to know that staying at home would have killed Roderich and Franz too. I don't know what's happening to my home but war is never good, is it? It's like they were doomed."

A crow landed a few feet from her, cawing loudly before flapping away.

"Your country always seems to be fighting Tsvetan's now. To think that, if you'd stayed, you'd both might even have fought against each other. Maybe even killed each other. Not nice to know, huh? At least me and Roderich would have been together until the end."

At the other end of the graveyard, someone broke down in front of a headstone, their wails cutting through the still air.

"I want to leave here," Érzsebét admitted; "no one likes me, apart from old man Vargas and his family. Everyone says war will start here too soon. I don't know where I would go though. Besides, I can't leave you. You're my only link to… to them."

She covered her mouth with a hand as tears began to spill.

"I don't even have a grave where I can mourn my own husband and child."

…

Érzsebét could only bring herself to read the letter days later, long after the police had taken Alin's body to the morgue. It was the night before his funeral, a quiet affair that only she and the Vargas family would be attending. Marianne had asked around, and they'd eventually found an Orthodox priest to perform the service. If they gave Alin a Catholic funeral, he'd probably come back, with strong words.

The flat was empty of life, except for Érzsebét herself, sat on the edge of the bed and trying desperately not to look at the bloodstains on the floor.

She tore the envelope open with trembling hands, unfolding it and staring at Alin's untidy scrawl, made all the more near-unreadable by the tears that blurred the ink and the blots left across the page by a shaky hand.

Érzsebét.

I'm so sorry about this, but I couldn't take living any longer. All I think about when you're gone is how I let my own brother slip from me like that. How I let Andrei and Tsvetan die right in front of me. They were my entire world and I have planned to join them from the moment they died.

Took me four and a half years to try, it seems.

I'm a coward, Érzsebét, as you've probably long realised. I don't care what you think of me for this; though, all the same, please try to understand my motives. I need to apologise to them.

It's not like I'm of use to anyone alive.

I don't deserve to live.

Nevertheless, please find me before it's too late. I'm probably going to regret this the moment I do it.

Farewell.

Alin Radacanu.

Érzsebét reread the letter as many times as she could before tears obscured her vision and she could see the writing no longer. Everything before her was a blur of white and black, broken only by the dim candlelight dancing across the paper.

She should've known before. It was clear he'd been suicidal. How could she not see the warning signs? Maybe if she'd just talked to him…

She of all people knew how dangerous guilt can get.

Érzsebét wondered if she'd ever forgive herself for allowing Alin's own guilt to kill him so brutally.

…

"It was nice talking to you again," Érzsebét said as she stood up, wiping the remains of her tears from her eyes.

"I miss you, you know? Like how I miss everyone else. Never thought that would happen. I used to think- back on the ship- that I'd be glad to see the back of you, but not now. Funny how things turn out, huh?"

Then she walked out, refusing to look back.

...

The end.