They stood outside, waiting, until the darkness fell around them and the cold sucked all the warmth from their bodies. Claire clutched her arms around herself as she tried to keep her teeth from chattering. Peter sighed as he scanned the horizon impatiently, the air so brisk that it stung his throat and lungs. Bennet stood stoically, hand never leaving the gun at his side, his stony expression concealing his anxiety.

"They aren't coming," Angela Petrelli told them, barely able to keep her balance as she struggled to walk across the soft ground. Her heels kept sinking into the topsoil.

The other three didn't move. They had come so far and were now so close; they weren't ready to give up just yet.

"They aren't coming," Angela reiterated. "They're not coming ever."

"Mom, you don't know what you're talking about. You don't know Sylar," Peter gruffly told her.

Angela folded her arms and walked back to Lloyd Gaines' farmhouse, letting herself in. Gaines was drinking and watching a Steelers game, and she sank down into the couch beside him. Watching the yellow and gold streaking across the field, Angela closed her eyes and dreamed again. The dream had changed somehow; no longer did she see the death of those near and dear to her, but something else entirely. She briefly wondered what it had been that changed the course of the future before the realness of the dream overcame her.

She saw him - Sylar - back in his glasses, though he certainly didn't need them anymore. He was wearing an apron and operating a waffle iron. Behind him, gently hugging him, was Elle, the woman she had fired so long ago. They both went to a third figure, a small child, who threw his arms around their bent necks and kissed them both in turn. Angela could tell that the child was their son, and she was witnessing the life they would build together to keep him safe.

The life they had made had saved their own.