The four young children laughed and chased one another around the yard. Their father watched, amused, as they played happily in the sunlight.

Their mother came out and sat down next to her husband. "It's amazing, how fast they grow," she said softly. "I still remember when I was that young."

"It is a wonderful point in life," he nodded. "They are still carefree, and life holds such promise."

Together, Miroku and Sango gazed out over their children, smiling to themselves.

Finally the children grew tired and ran to their father, sitting down on the steps around him. Sango smiled, and kissed them all good night. "Get some sleep," she told them. "Good night."

"Good night, Mother!" they chorused. She gave Miroku a kiss and went inside to sleep.

The monk smiled as his daughter climbed into his lap. "Will you tell us a story, Father?" she asked.

"What story?" he asked, smiling at the children.

"Tell us about Naraku," his son said eagerly. "The evil hanyou that you fought, back when the jewel was still split into so many pieces. Tell us about the fight."

Miroku sighed, looking out of the horizon. In the distance, he could see the Forest of Inuyasha. Somewhere inside the dark blur of trees, he knew, sat an old well, small and seemingly insignificant – the beginning of the entire adventure.

Memories chased one another through his mind. Some were sad, others happy, a few stored away in the back of his mind where he would cherish them forever. He gazed out at the forest a moment longer before turning his eyes down to his hand. He was still getting used to the feeling of the air brushing freely against it – sometimes, when he woke at night, he felt for the familiar prayer beads and was horrified when he realized they were gone. Then, and only then, would he remember that he no longer needed them. The pain that Naraku had caused, the terrible suffering, was too foul to speak of.

"No," he said quietly, his eyes dark as they stared out over the horizon. "No, children, I won't tell you the story of Naraku."

His son looked up at him. "Why, Father?" he questioned, gazing up at Miroku. "Why won't you tell us about your great adventure, and the curse he put on your hand?"

"Because, my son," the monk said with a sad smile, "it is in the past now. Those dark times are over, and now we must look to the future."

"Why, Father?" his youngest daughter asked innocently, still seated in his lap. "What's in the future?"

Miroku looked down at her, and remembered the one thing they had kept ahold of, even in the darkest times when they thought that all was lost. They had kept going, all that time, because they knew the answer to such an innocent question.

"Hope," he replied softly.