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HE IS GETTING by without her.

Surviving his Dark Ages is like trying to sunlight amidst a long, cold winter. Sometimes, he catches a glimpse of it. A visit from a relative he never knew existed, or a phone call from an old friend he didn't know he had. Other days, he wallows in a familiar blend of grief and guilt, haunted by the ghost of her lips on his mouth and her fingers on his skin. He can almost—almost—feel her there with him, and yet she isn't.

Then there are the dark days. He's buried six-feet beneath the snow, shivering and sobbing from just how much he misses her, how lost he is without her, how broken he is because he still loves her. Those are the days when his brothers find him, curled up in his room or hunched over her grave. No words need to be exchanged as they pull him up, shove a mug of coffee into his hands and sit beside him until he stops shaking.

Those days are the worst.

Then there are the better days. They come three years after the end of the Dark Ages, and two years into his therapy.

One day, he wakes up and steps outside. Instead of seeing the dark gray clouds looming overhead, he opens his eyes and sees—the fresh green grass, raindrops on the windows, a crack of sunlight between the clouds. He looks not at the closed buds on the rose bush, but at the blooming roses turned skywards. He drags in a deep breath and inhales the petrichor surrounding him; feels his own pulse thrum steadily from within.

He thinks to himself—it's a better day today.

And then it is.

It's that simple. A new perspective, a glass half full, a trick of the mind. And everything changes. Of course, there are still days when he falls apart, stumbles back a step after taking two forward. But once he makes an effort to find contentment in the little things—a cup of coffee, a phone call from one of the men he'd saved, a snarky joke from one of his brothers—his days become easier.

Contentment.

That's what he looks for now. He can't taste happiness when she's taken that away with her passing. But he'll settle for content because it's as good as it'll get without her, and it's what keeps him sane.

He come to a halt as he stares at the familiar house across the street. Five years have passed since the end of the Dark Ages, and that house is no longer his.

Now, it's a memorial—not just for her, but for the ones in this town who'd been lost in the fight against Generation F. There are many of them. Victims who were killed and who were turned. People whose bravery would never be awarded posthumously and who would be forgotten as the Dark Ages fade into a mere period of history. But this memorial makes the survivors remember. It tells a story of courage and sacrifice and loss, once upon a time.

And whenever he looks at it, he hears an echo of her voice in her head—I didn't save you so that you could throw your life away, Taehyung. Promise me that when you go back to the future, you'll treasure it.

So he does just that.

He'd already moved into the house opposite—the one where she'd given him the key to. The other house. In retrospect, it's quite fitting that he stays there, because it had been the place where he'd once lived in to watch over himself. He'd been without her knowledge, her guidance, her. It was the first time he'd been his own hero.

It's only apt that he continues to do that till today.

Seokjin and Namjoon had moved in with him—first to keep an eye out, then because they were family, and he couldn't kick them out no matter how much they got on his nerves, sometimes. Seokjin nags and Namjoon clutters. But he puts up with them because you have your family, she'd told him before, that's a good place to start.

And it is.

Seokjin still runs the trauma treatment facility, now aided by Namjoon and, sometimes, him. They're getting by through helping others get by. Jungkook has moved into the neighbouring town with his family—he'd seen the other man on several occasions when picking up dinner from the other town. Hoseok has moved his research lab here—two streets down, where they see each other in passing. Jimin has returned to the university to educate young, bright minds in his field—a brief reprieve from a world that still can't get enough of him. And, every now and then, he catches a glimpse of Yoongi—across the street, decked out in his uniform with all the badges, standing at the memorial by the place where she'd been buried.

As for him, he'd tried to move on by reconnecting with the past. Once the dust had settled, he'd retrieved his old books, retrieved hers, and started to read. Words had blurred and equations had boggled. He'd almost given up at first—only the sheer determination to understand his own mind (and hers) had kept him at it. How had she created the Cypher? How had he created Strand F?

He wanted to understand, if only so he could leave those questions behind.

Slowly but surely, their research had begun to make sense. He'd contacted Hoseok and Jimin for help, then studied until he understood. It wasn't enough. He'd returned home one day with a schedule in his hand, a stack of books tucked under his other arm, and shrugged when his brothers asked him where he'd been.

"The library," he'd said, "I'm going to earn those degrees I had all over again. Probably ace them all over again, too."

Seokjin had rolled his eyes, even though his lips twitched up in an approving smile. And Namjoon had simply snarked "Show-off," while handing him a cup of coffee.

He'd gone to bed that night feeling like he finally knew where his life was headed, even if only temporarily. His brothers's faith in him was assuring, too, and he could almost hear an echo of her voice in his head as he fell asleep.

You never walk alone, Taehyung.

It wasn't the first time that he'd heard her voice in his head, nor was it his last. Her voice—gentle and quiet, sometimes light, other times melancholic, pulling him through his darkest days and guiding him towards the brightest ones—would surface in his mind every so often. He'd choose coffee over tea, and there it was—your other self preferred tea, you know. Funny how things change. And yet, lovelier still that others stay the same. He heard her when he went to bed at night—you made it through today. You did good, Taehyung—and when he opened his eyes in the morning—it's a good day today, Taehyung. What're you going to do?

For awhile, sometime during the second year past the Dark Ages, he'd wondered if he was going mad. Perhaps he missed her so damned much that he'd begun to hallucinate her voice. Then, when his mind cleared, he realized—no, that wasn't it.

It was just how damned much he loved her. Still loves her. Her voice, like the rest of her, had been embedded in his heart and he thought of her all the time. Some of these thoughts were memories of what she'd said to him before; others mere imaginings of what she would say had she still been alive. She was—and still is—in his mind, and in his heart.

Sometimes, he thinks that she is his heart.

Even now, as he crosses the road to the memorial as he does every morning, he hears her. There are many people here today—it's the fifth-year anniversary, after all. He weaves his way through the cars parked along the street, and the crowd milling about the driveway. Where before he'd always felt claustrophobic among crowds, he rather enjoys being a part of them now. Lost among the noise. An absolute nobody amidst a sea of nobodies.

Always so melodramatic, he hears her, a hint of laughter in her soft voice. That's you in a nutshell, Taehyung.

He almost quirks a smile at that thought—and yes, he can smile now. Like contentment, smiles and laughter come in small doses. It leaves him with a brief surge of adrenaline, like a sugar rush, a lingering bittersweetness on his tongue.

Pushing his way through the crowd, he exchanges brief nods with fellow neighbours, then stops a little way off the big memorial structure. The garden is filled with rose bushes of every color, but it's the sole white one that he stops in front of.

This is where he'd buried her; this is where she's stayed since. No one, save for the ones who knew her, knows about her grave. He knows she would've appreciated the understatement, and he quite likes it that way himself. She's a secret which he obsessively keeps, a past that only he knows, a woman that he loves.

His.

Beneath his shoes, the grass patch is worn from the many hours he's spent standing there. Slowly, he lowers himself and leans forward, brushing his fingers against the petals of a blooming rose.

How do you save a life?

To him, the answer is simple: you go back in time to save it.

But to her, it's not as straightforward: you must first meet the man that he will become, then meet the monster that he is, and send the monster back in time to become the man that he will be.

She'd saved him from his past and his guilt, the Dark Ages and Generation F. Even now, years after her death, she's still saving him—with his memories of her and her voice in her head, encouraging him to be his own hero.

He swallows and presses his fingers to his lips. "Thank you," he whispers, then climbs to his feet.

One last stop.

He pushes through the crowd, shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, and walks down a familiar path. It's one that he's walked many times before. His best memory of it had been when she'd strolled down it with him, headed for the river. Dressed in a pea-green coat, she'd tucked her hair behind her ear and beamed up at him. That flutter he'd once felt in his chest is acute, even now. He'd looked up at the blue sky above and—

No, wait.

Was it the blue of spring? Or had it been a cloudy day?

He blinks, his feet slowing to a halt mere feet away from the bridge. Has he actually...forgotten? The emotions he'd felt while with her—a tight coil of anticipation in his stomach, dazed from her rosy scent and bright eyes, his sharp yearning for her—are all as fresh as if it had happened just yesterday.

But the rest of it have just...faded.

He casts a glance around. The surge of anger he'd felt when the bastard had tried to grope her is a biting tang, but he can no longer remember the other man's face. The cold dread when he'd escaped the zombies still haunts him, but he can no longer remember where he'd stopped running.

His feet move until he's on top of the bridge, and he leans his arms against the railing. Ten years ago, he'd stood here with her. He'd told her about his time-travels and all the what–will–be's. In his mind's eye, she's clear as day—sunlight threaded through her hair, her warm arm brushing his, a brilliant smile that made him ache.

But had the weather been truly clear that day, or had it drizzled? Was there a boat rowing past, a smattering of people here and there? How many freckles had dotted her cheeks, how close had they been standing?

He's forgotten.

The smallest details now elude him. But where before he would've railed and rallied to remember, he finds that he's surprisingly...okay with that. Before he can ponder on that further, the sharp ring of his phone ruptures the silence. He scrambles for it, then slides a finger across the screen to answer.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" Seokjin asks, without preamble. A buzz of noise cuts through the air and Namjoon's voice echoes in the background. He must be on speakerphone.

"At the river," he answers truthfully. There's no reason to hide anymore. "What's up?"

"We just saw Jimin and Hoseok at the memorial. They managed to track down Jungkook and Yoongi, who'll be here within an hour. Namjoon thought that, maybe, the seven of us could head out for a drink or two. She did bring us together, after all."

Nostalgia floods through him at the truth of that statement. "Sure," he says easily, then wrinkles his nose in mild disgust. "It's just a drink. Why're you making it sound like we're about to form a boy band?"

"Boy band?" That's Namjoon, with a wicked grin in his voice. "Don't tempt me. We'd be world-famous, and a couple of us already have that thing going. Together, we'll be the next big hit."

"The next big nightmare, you mean," he returns dryly, even as his lips twitch at his brothers's laughter. "I'll come back soon."

With a quick goodbye, he rings off and sets his phone aside. For a moment, he stares at the calm water, the murmur of wind in the background. Then, slowly, he reaches into his pocket and draws out two objects:

The memory-wipe, and the Cypher.

He looks down at them, curling his fingers tight to keep his hands from trembling. Sometimes, during his dark days, he thinks of a concept she'd once told him about. The Many-Worlds theory, she'd said, where all alternate histories and futures must be true.

If the Dark Ages didn't exist. If the Dark Ages did exist but she hadn't died. If he hadn't created Strand F. If he had created Strand F but hadn't allowed its misuse. If he hadn't time-jumped. If he had time-jumped and managed to save her. If the sky was bright. If the weather was fine. If all was right with the world.

If, if, if.

He wraps courage around his heart, and tosses both the memory-wipe and the Cypher into the river. They land with a splash—drowning, sinking, fading like the rest of his past. He closes his eyes. The truth is that he can spend a lifetime thinking of all the alternate timelines and parallel universes, but they will never come to be. And each time his eyes are shut and he imagines what could have been, he's missing out on what already is.

Life, however tragic, is beautiful.

Blink, and you might miss it.

He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and walks away.