First Person: [Last she remembers, she had been warring with another bout of insomnia, nothing particularly unusual. But this? This is unusual. She doesn’t recall falling asleep, and she certainly has no explanation for why she is waking up on a train which appears to be heading to an unfamiliar city. Perhaps she had fallen asleep after all, and this is only a dream, a product of her own memory and imagination.]
It’s been decades since I was on a train.
[Some instinct tells her this is not a dream. It’s very much real. As the train lurches to a halt, she stands, glancing over her shoulder before she steps out onto the platform. She already knows the train will not be taking her back, and she doesn’t turn when she hears it leave, instead looking at the city before her.]
Where am I?
Third Person: Some days, they would fall into the familiar banter she had come to rely on over the years; other days, he didn’t even recognize her. Those days were the most difficult. She sat, holding his hand tightly, listening to him tell stories from his time in the system as silent tears slid down her cheeks, splashing onto their joined hands. His beautiful mind had long ago succumbed to the rigors of age. Those days, seeing what had become of him was almost too much for Helen to bear. Those days, Helen left his room in the early hours of the morning, long after he’d fallen asleep, and curled into her own bed, entire body aching, as she wept. She was losing him; day by day, minute by minute, he was slipping away from her.
She was on a mission in Old City, in the middle of the worst storm of the year, when she got the call. It was time. Reaching for the nearest member of her team, she caught his arm, pulling him close. Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, “I have to go.”
Releasing the young man, she turned, sprinting through the rain to her van. They knew, of course. They all knew, but not one of them dared breathe a word of it in her presence. He was the one subject she refused to speak about; there was no need for them to know, and Will deserved his peace. However, as she drove into the night, they all knew they would be looking at a different woman come morning.
When she slipped into his quarters, it was with a heavy heart, knowing this was the last time she would be coming to see him. She dismissed the medical staff with a quiet, “Thank you,” standing just inside the doorway long after they had left. This would be their last night together.
Re: [CANON ] Helen Magnus || Sanctuary || No Reserve || 3 of 3
It’s been decades since I was on a train.
[Some instinct tells her this is not a dream. It’s very much real. As the train lurches to a halt, she stands, glancing over her shoulder before she steps out onto the platform. She already knows the train will not be taking her back, and she doesn’t turn when she hears it leave, instead looking at the city before her.]
Where am I?
Third Person: Some days, they would fall into the familiar banter she had come to rely on over the years; other days, he didn’t even recognize her. Those days were the most difficult. She sat, holding his hand tightly, listening to him tell stories from his time in the system as silent tears slid down her cheeks, splashing onto their joined hands. His beautiful mind had long ago succumbed to the rigors of age. Those days, seeing what had become of him was almost too much for Helen to bear. Those days, Helen left his room in the early hours of the morning, long after he’d fallen asleep, and curled into her own bed, entire body aching, as she wept. She was losing him; day by day, minute by minute, he was slipping away from her.
She was on a mission in Old City, in the middle of the worst storm of the year, when she got the call. It was time. Reaching for the nearest member of her team, she caught his arm, pulling him close. Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, “I have to go.”
Releasing the young man, she turned, sprinting through the rain to her van. They knew, of course. They all knew, but not one of them dared breathe a word of it in her presence. He was the one subject she refused to speak about; there was no need for them to know, and Will deserved his peace. However, as she drove into the night, they all knew they would be looking at a different woman come morning.
When she slipped into his quarters, it was with a heavy heart, knowing this was the last time she would be coming to see him. She dismissed the medical staff with a quiet, “Thank you,” standing just inside the doorway long after they had left. This would be their last night together.