The books resting across the shelves are old, worn by time and negligence, as Abe runs his webbed fingers across their spines, images coming to his mind like long abandoned memories that were never truly his, stolen from the palms and kept in the heart. Beethoven floats through the air, soothing him as it always has, and the book store employees give him odd stares that he ignores to the best of his hard learned ability.

Red and Liz are just outside, holding the twins close, huddling in a corner to keep the cold away, and he remains baffled at the fact that they don't want to come in. Surrounded by the music of his soul and all the books in the world, who wouldn't want to be in this wonderful place? A small girl with fiery red hair walks by, clutching her mother's hand like a lifeline, her tongue frozen against an ice cream cone that she holds stock still as she stares at him, her blue eyes as wide as quarters.

Her freckles scrunch up as a perplexed expression crosses her face and she tugs on her mother's hand with vigor. "Mama, look! It's that fishman with the toilet seat on his neck!" Ah, now he understands. He has almost forgotten the people around him, their questioning thoughts that are too rude to even acknowledge. He shakes his head with a slight trace of annoyance and walks right by her, carefully avoiding brushing against the child, desperately trying to keep as many thoughts away as possible. He can sense the doubling amount, no, tripling, of eyes on him and so he picks up the pace and briskly walks to the back of the store, surrounded by the oldest books in stock.

He places a hand on the back wall to brace himself at the assault of images that pour into his mind, crowding him out and making him claustrophobic as memories are pushed from his mind, replaced by ones that aren't his, faces of foreign children slipping into view, birthday parties and crying in the rain and hospital visits all rolled into one jumble of whispers that nearly drive him insane. He takes three deep breaths and counts to twenty, just like Liz taught him, and closes his hand into a fist as he leans against a shelf, exhausted.

It takes him several moments to recompose himself, glad for the solace of this small space, and he finally relaxes. He turns and scans the books, plucking them from their spaces amid the dusty shelves to read the covers, careful fingers flipping the pages as he skims the stories.

He tilts his head in curiosity as he spots a single blue book, surrounded by empty spaces that might have once been filled, with golden lettering delicately written across the spine. He swallows, a tidal wave of memories threatening to come to the surface, and quickly picks it up, holding it like a father would hold his precious child.

He runs a finger across the raised letters of the title, feeling the smooth, worn bumps across the cover that remind him far too much of another book entirely, one that has been long abandoned at an agency he no longer cares for. Abe flips to page 93, the number burned into his brain, and silently reads the poem resting there, hidden between pages of romance and tragedy, a bittersweet merge of both. The echo of a voice, too distant to truly hear, haunts him as it always has and he doesn't have to hear the words to know what it's saying.

The melody pulls him to memories best left buried and he sighs at the sorrowful feeling washing over him, utterly and completely taking his will from him, and he has no choice but to surrender to that gentle voice, hanging on every word spoken from those soft lips. He's almost completely submerged in the memory, in the ghost of soft dresses and soft smiles, until the sharp sound of whispers cuts through the air. Abe snaps out of his familiar reverie, blinking away the images, and strains to hear.

He feels it before the sound can register, that surge of something achingly recognizable that floods his mind, and as the hush of a whisper of Tennyson reaches his ears, he spots a flash of green between the books. It moves forward and he follows suit, pressed against the book shelf to get a closer look. He walks in time with the emerging footfalls that pierce the air with every step, the clicking of shoes against hardwood bringing him back to the swish of a dress against carpet, and Abe holds his breath.

He nears the end of the bookshelf, a growing certainty creeping into his heart, and the gentle tap of shoes comes to a sudden halt as the merciful cover of the bookshelf falls away to reveal nothing but one single person in front of him.

Abe's breath comes to a sudden and cruelly abrupt halt as he freezes in his tracks, his heart jumping up to pound in time with the notes of Mozart. Nuala stares at him, her golden eyes as big as he's ever seen them, and her lips part in surprise, a book clutched in her pale hands. She blinks at him and takes a breath, as if to say something, anything, to cut the immediate tension in the air, the rush of unanswered questions and rapid thoughts that he knows she feels, but the words fall silent between them.

After ten years, how can the words fall silent? How can he not find his voice, much less the ability to breathe?

The loud jangle of the bell above the door reverberates past the music and makes Nuala jump, knocking Abe out of his trance. He can feel Red's presence, as strong as anything could possibly be, barreling toward him. He could leave right now and stop Red from making a scene at how much time has passed, leave right now and never turn back, but can he, really? Can he turn away from the beautiful ghost that haunts his dreams, when he can't even turn from her when he is dreaming?

The decision takes less time than the time it takes to blink and he knows with certainty that she's just thought the same. "Abraham," she murmurs against the blaring voices of a brewing argument that stand out in the quiet shop, her voice as tender as a lover's last breath. His sigh is caught up in the softest breath he's ever taken, her name leaving his lips as easily as anything he's ever done in his entire life, like he was born to do just this. "Princess," he whispers, the lilt of aftershock in both their voices.

Their heads turn at the sound of a yell and they both hurry past the rows of books to where Red is pointing a stone finger at one of the workers, Liz's eyes lit up with fire beside him as the twins, now temperamental teenagers, huddle close behind. It's hard to understand what either party is saying, thanks to the music and the constant need to yell that Red was born with, and Abe shakes his head.

"Red, stop it!" Abe interjects, pushing forward to put an arm on his friend's shoulder. And he truly does stop, images pouring from Abe's mind to his. Red's mouth closes in surprise and he swivels to look at Nuala, his amber eyes wide with shock. Liz's mouth falls open and she backs away, wary of the ghost from her past.

Nuala looks to her feet, suddenly aware of the attention, her pale hands nervously fidgeting with each other. Red gives her a lasting glance that's more calculating than Abe's ever seen and reluctantly nods in understanding.

He looks around him and motions for Abe to join him as he starts to walk away. "You, too, your highness."

Please R&R! After I wrote this, I kept reading it over and over again and I'm not entirely sure it's all that good. What do you think? Should I continue this? Feedback is very much appreciated! ;)

All rights go to their respectful owners. I own nothing.