Work Text:
DAY ONE
***
On the flight home, Wanda tucks herself in a back corner of the quinjet, daring anyone to talk to her.
Her world both returned and ended on a bright, sunshiny morning, blue sky and lush Wakandan green. It was beautiful and so ugly, and she couldn’t be there anymore. She didn’t want to see any of the others, talk to them, debrief or what-the-hell-ever. But chartering a flight was too complicated and expensive, so she ghosted onto the Avengers’ plane and curled up as far away as she could get.
They’re discussing what happened and bandaging psychic wounds. Their words filter back to her sometimes. Sadness. A bit of pride here and there at their accomplishment. Tony Stark. Grief pulses off of them, and she pushes it away. Wanda doesn’t know how she feels about his death, not that she wants to unpack it anyway. When she hears a whispered, “Vision”, she pulls at her palms and flicks up a red filter around herself. He is hers to mourn. Not theirs.
Clint looks back at her long enough to catch her eye, a faint, sympathetic expression on his face. She blinks then strengthens the filter. He means well. She doesn’t care. Wanda closes her eyes and drifts until she can feel that they’re over the Atlantic. When she sinks into sleep, she doesn’t dream.
***
Once they’re close to the U.S., Wanda says, “New York. Take me there.” But it comes out as a whisper, so she clears her throat and repeats, “Drop me off in New York.”
The others turn as one, like they’d forgotten she was there. She almost glares at them, but hey, she’s the one who wanted to be invisible. Banner opens his mouth like he’s going to argue with her -- no surprise -- but then just nods.
Wanda stands up, stretching cramped muscles. After giving her a once-over, Steve approaches. “New York?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anyone there?”
She shrugs. “No, but it’s where I want to go.” She’s not even sure why, just that it’s big and busy, and she doesn’t have any memories of Vision there.
Steve finally nods. “Okay. You know how to get hold of us, right? Use the same protocols from back then. It’s been five years, but they should still work.”
Five years. She flinches but pushes that down inside her because she doesn’t know what that means and does not want to think about it right now.
He goes back up to the cockpit, rummages around in a bag, and returns with… a credit card, of all things. Steve shrugs. “You’ll need some money. The pin code is 2858.” Wanda almost laughs. Does he not realize she could spell-up a million dollars with a flick of her wrist if she wanted? She smothers the laugh and mutters a thank-you.
The quinjet hums as it slows to approach wherever they’re going to land in the city. Rogers stays next to her, though he doesn’t seem to know what to say. Her nerves tingle with the need to get away from all this. And as the jet alights with a slight thud, he stops her. “Tony’s funeral will be on Tuesday. If you want to join us, I’ll send a car.”
And that nearly buckles her knees. A funeral. A fucking funeral.
Wanda swallows back bile and says, “I’ll let you know,” before stepping out into the night.
***
After buying a prepaid smartphone at the only open bodega she can find, Wanda makes a beeline for the nearest hotel and gets a room -- length of visit: indefinite -- on the twenty-third floor. It’s sleek and modern, full of all the luxuries that Rogers’ credit card could buy. The kind of place where, as a kid, Wanda imagined all Americans stayed.
Both fatigue and hunger hit her like a wall, but her mind is still wide awake. She rifles through the minibar for crackers and a small bottle of vodka. The good stuff. Then she sits cross-legged on the bed and takes stock of her life.
The last thing she remembers of then is dissolving into nothingness, followed by the shivery confusion of her return. Jumping back into the fight because instinct told her it’s what she had to do. Power and magic and a haze of blood and violence that kept her from thinking of anything else. And then struggling to breathe as the dust settled, everyone around her celebrating a victory while she fell apart again.
It all happened in the span of three hours, broken in half by five years.
None of it makes sense. When the Avengers reassembled in the royal palace, those who’d remained tried to explain it to those who’d disappeared, but Wanda had barely paid attention. All she could think of was Vision. She grabbed Banner’s huge arm and rasped, “I have to go get him. I have to --” but her knees buckled.
Banner just looked down at her like he had no idea how to handle this crazy witch. Maybe that was unfair, but Wanda wasn’t in the mood to be rational. Then Clint -- always looking out for her in his own reticent way -- knelt beside her and said, “We’ll take care of it.” And she had to trust him, because she had nothing else.
The vodka sizzles through her veins, pulling her closer to sleep. Vision is with them. He has to be. And she is all alone.
***
DAY TWO
***
Pandemonium.
Vision taught her that word, ages ago when they were watching some show full of characters going mad. She doesn’t remember which one, just the word and the amused tone of his voice.
”John Milton. Paradise Lost. The capital of Hell and all the demons of the world. They remained there in the poem, of course, but the term is now used as a metaphor for those demons breaking loose, wreaking havoc on their environs.”
“Aren’t I a demon causing destruction, too?” She’d said it with a half-laugh, but with memories of Lagos still fresh in her mind.
Vision gave her one of those long stares of his, the kind that made her want to squirm or catch her breath. “No. Never.”
Wanda looks out the Starbucks window, at the crowds filling the New York City streets. Paradise regained, she supposes.
It’s been perhaps twenty-nine hours since half the world returned. Since she returned. Families and old friends shout as they reunite. A true carnival atmosphere, minus the big tents and candy floss. No rhyme or reason to the chaos. Just happiness.
Wanda nurses her fifth coffee of the afternoon, the table littered with empty cups and pastry crumbs that she’d had to force down until the delayed hunger overwhelmed her. She’s the only person in the cafe; even the baristas spilled out into the streets shortly after she arrived. She could probably raid the prepared food display for meals to last the rest of the week, and nobody would care. So much noise out there, so many thoughts that she doesn’t want to hear. Concentrating, she carefully turns off that ability in her mind. It was one of the first things she learned how to do after Sokovia.
But part of her wants to feel that celebration too. She wants to feel something beyond this bone-deep numbness that is slowly giving way to bitterness. She watches them through the window and thinks: I had to kill the love of my life with my own hands. I had to watch him die, knowing it was because of me. I did it to save each and every one of you.
***
DAY THREE
***
Wanda sleeps for eleven hours straight, only waking when housekeeping raps on the door. She barks, “NO,” and they leave her alone.
She takes a long, scalding shower before realizing that she’d have to put back on the same clothes that she’d worn when they left the compound for Wakanda three days and five years ago. The underwear gets tossed in the trash, of course, but she still has to bite back disgust and don the jeans and shirt. Perhaps she can burn them when she gets back.
Time to face the world again. Still, she casts a quick spell to change her face just enough to avoid recognition. Not that anyone would likely recognize her. They didn’t yesterday. They’re all too caught up in their own lives. And what would law enforcement even do if they found her? Does saving the universe ameliorate all her crimes and sins? Does it make everything okay again?
She pulls the hood over her head and takes the elevator down to the lobby, where she withdraws several thousand dollars from an ATM. A hat-tip to Steve Rogers for giving her a card that actually works. Of course she can take care of herself, but at least this way she’s doing things above-board.
And then a quick flash of Pietro knifes her in the gut. It was one evening after dinner in the small apartment they’d been given in the HYDRA fortress. He sat at the dingy table and laughed while she carefully washed the dishes. “Why don’t you just magic everything clean, like Harry Potter?”
Wanda rolled her eyes at him and reached for the soap. “Because that would be cheating.”
“Oh, really? So you weren’t cheating every time you won at checkers against Papa?” And she answered by throwing the dishcloth at him.
Wanda grabs at a luggage cart to steady herself. A few deep breaths, then she folds the cash into her back pocket and walks out onto the street.
***
Once upon a time, she liked shopping. Before HYDRA, she would stroll through the market, debating what might look good on her. Vain enough to take care that she fit the image she wanted to project. Years later, she’d scroll through Zappo’s and ASOS and buy things with the money she managed to get from Stark. Romanoff always looked great. Wanda wanted to look better. But that stopped mattering as much after Lagos.
Now she tries to scrub her mind of everything else and pretend that she’s on a shopping spree like in Pretty Woman (one of Pietro’s favorites, not that he would’ve admitted it.) But that doesn’t last long, given that most of the stores are still closed. At least the streets aren’t as crowded this afternoon.
Wanda buys a few shirts and pants, a coat, some shoes, and underwear. Enough to last for a week or two, while she decides what the hell she’s going to do. The past year of running taught her how to pack light, to not get attached to things. But she misses that red leather jacket that Pietro grabbed for her on the last day he was alive. The pale gray scarf that Vision gave her when they met in Guadalajara for Christmas. Possessions might not be important, but she has nothing left of those two men. Nothing.
Stark’s funeral is tomorrow. Wanda pauses in front of a display window, staring at a black dress. It would be appropriate attire. She doesn’t care. They can take her as she is, and if they frown behind her back, they can go to hell. That is, assuming she even shows up. She hasn’t yet decided. Still, she goes in and buys the dress. It will look good on her.
On a whim, Wanda enters a salon and asks for a cut and color. It’s stupid, but what else is she going to do with the rest of the day? When the stylist (who chirps that her name is Heather) attempts small talk, Wanda mutters something about not understanding, in her thickest Sokovian accent. That does the trick. Even so, Heather catches her eye in the mirror while painting dye on her roots. “I still can’t believe that my girlfriend came back! Did you luck out too?”
Wanda purses her lips and takes another familiar deep breath. “I had someone. He’s gone.”
Heather doesn’t say another word.
***
She makes it back to the hotel room before breaking down.
I had someone. He’s gone.
He could have been her husband. Why the hell did she wait? Vision is the one who cares about ethics and honoring commitments, but he wanted her to stay. With him. It was four days ago. Four fucking days (and five years.) They should still be in Edinburgh right now. They should be in bed, Vision shifting into his human form to make love. She would put up a cloaking spell so they could stay in that room where those monsters could never find them. She should be lying there with him, saying “You know I love you, right?” and “I’m going to stay with you as long as you’ll have me” and “I do.”
She, of all people, should’ve known that her time was borrowed, that she had to take what was offered because it might be gone tomorrow. Everyone who’d loved her had died. She should’ve expected that Vision could die too. She should’ve --
Wanda chokes on a sob.
He could have been her husband. He loved her. He’d only said it a few times, but she knew. She knew. She could feel it, even without her fingers on the mind stone. Vision was kind and thoughtful and everything. The world wanted her dead or behind bars, but he loved her. After Leipzig, she was used to being on the run. She’d made that choice and accepted the consequences. In those few months before, they’d flirted and made doe-eyes that should’ve embarrassed her but didn’t. No commitments. He could’ve written her off. He wasn’t designed for more than that. He could’ve kept on being a hero, an Avenger, walking the straight and narrow. But he wanted her. She remembers reading that text message from Natasha when she was holed up in an Argentine safe house: “visitor tomorrow noon.” Wanda didn’t think much of it -- likely another mission -- but then she’d opened the door to see him there, and her whole body had pulsed red and bright yellow. She touched his arm, and she knew.
Three days ago, she braced herself and shot energy at him until the mind stone exploded. He loved her, and she killed him. He could have been hers, to have and to hold, but she killed him.
Wanda screams into an empty room.
***
DAY FOUR
***
Vision once said that they would never stop being afraid of her. But she looks around at the people assembled outside this cabin, and she wonders how on earth they could possibly be afraid of her. A stupid, crazy girl who can’t control her powers. She can move things with her mind, but she couldn’t keep Vision alive.
With their backs to her, they’re not afraid anymore. She is invisible, like a ghost, and that suits her right now. Everyone’s chins are high and noble and whatever as they watch Stark being taken down to the lake, but she knows they’ll all go inside the cabin later and cry it out. She wonders if anyone cried for Vision five years ago, before they left him to turn to dust in Wakanda. Maybe that’s not true. She hasn’t asked. She’s afraid to.
She can’t be here.
When Pietro died, she had the Avengers take her to a place out in the woods, not too far from that government youth camp where they’d spent every summer as teens. She magicked a deep hole and a coffin for protection, and she cried over him until she made herself leave before she could join. Last year, she managed to sneak into Sokovia and visited the grave to search for the feel of him. But there was nothing left.
When Mama and Papa died, there was a funeral mass with no bodies. So many people died that day, and Wanda and Pietro were too young and too poor to demand a proper burial. So her parents were buried in a mass grave with all the other lost souls. Wanda still remembers fragments of the mass. Distant aunts and cousins hugging her and wiping away their tears before sending her and Pietro off to an orphanage. And that word pulsing through her mind like a red heartbeat: Stark.
He never liked her, which was fine because she didn’t like him either. She’d forced herself to stop holding him completely responsible for her parents’ death. Oh, he still made the bomb, but the fury every time she looked at him just left her tired. She and Vision talked about it once, walking through a field on one of those stolen visits. “I am the reason for Mr. Rhodes’ grievous injuries. You are the reason for those lives lost in Nigeria. Mr. Stark is the reason that bomb was created. But all of us were doing what we thought was right at the time. We can carry the blame, but we also have to move forward in our own ways.”
Wanda knows she should move forward, but there is no path. Just death. And nobody else fucking cares.
She closes her eyes, breathing in and out and in.
***
“I missed you, y’know.”
Wanda looks over at Clint, so out-of-place in funereal black, and he adds, “Never thought you’d hear me say that, huh?”
She’s unsure whether she’s supposed to laugh, so she just mutters, “Thanks.”
He looks down at his hands. “If nothing else, the past five years taught me the importance of family. And you’re family, I guess.”
That gets a little smile out of her. “Cousins, maybe.”
“Third cousins, once removed.”
Wanda doesn’t know what that means, but she finally laughs. Just a little. Hearing it doesn’t make her feel better, though it’s nice. She’d always been the outsider, even when she was living with the others in the compound. They never really trusted her, not that she blames them. Clint least of all. Yet he was kind to her back then -- in a different way than Vision’s kindness, but it still mattered. She doubts all those people in the cabin consider her a third or fourth or fifth cousin, and that’s fine. She doesn’t need them. She had a family before, and now she’s on her own. She knows how to be alone.
Leaves rustle behind them, and they both turn around to see Laura standing there. “Everything okay?” Her voice sounds careful.
Clint glances at Wanda then back at his wife. “Give me a minute.”
Laura nods. “I’m glad you’re back, Wanda.” She walks away.
He takes a step toward her, hands raised slightly then back at his sides, like he was going to give her a hug and decided against it. Good. The thought of someone touching her right now turns her stomach.
“Guess that’s my cue.” A pause. “Look, if you ever need anything, you call me, okay? And come visit anytime. I mean it.”
She knows he does, but she doubts she’ll ever pick up the phone or hop a plane. The offer is nice, though, so she gives him the closed-lipped smile he’s expecting and says, “Thank you.”
Clint looks at her like he’s going to say something else, but just gives her a half-salute and walks away.
Wanda exhales.
She stares out at the lake and tries to clear her mind of everything. The funeral for Tony Stark. The funeral that Vision will never have. Clint said that he hoped Romanoff knew that they all won in the end. Wanda is certain that, wherever he is, Vision has to know too. She can feel it in the sliver of the mind stone that still lives in her chest.
It’s calm here. Peaceful. Therapeutic, maybe, but she can’t stand it. Wanda made her appearance, not that the rest of the crowd likely cares. Time to get out of here. She turns around and scans the perimeter, looking for the route of least resistance. The car service driver said she would stick around, so Wanda heads toward the driveway, keeping clear of the cabin.
And just as she reaches the car, Pepper Potts, of all people, approaches her. She flinches, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, but she forces herself to stop and say, “It was a lovely service. I’m sorry for your loss.” Dozens of people, all sorry for your loss, but mine barely merits a whisper.
“Thank you.” Potts gives her a beatific smile that’s like sunshine, and Wanda wants to hate it but can’t. She holds up a large brown envelope. “A few weeks before— well, Vision came to me for help in putting together a plan, in case anything happened. He reserved a safe deposit box at a bank in New York. Everything you’ll need is in here.”
A plan, in case anything happened.
It hits her like a slap, and she hates, hates the tears that smart her eyes. She is frozen in place, as red bursts of energy sting her hands. When she reaches out to take the envelope, Potts steps forward and pulls her into a hug. And despite that flight instinct, Wanda clutches at her for dear life.
***
Curled up on the bed, funeral dress in the trash, she stares at the hotel guide on the TV. Her mind drifts to that first time with Vision, because it’s better than thinking about funerals and banks and everything after that.
So many kisses, but he seemed surprised when she slipped out of her clothes. “I’m sorry. I’m not entirely certain what to do.”
Oh. Right. Off her surprise, he continued, “I did research the act via pornography, though.”
She fell back onto the sheets, laughing at the absurdity of it all. He frowned, so she said, “No, it’s good. It’ll be good.” Wanda scooted to the edge of the bed and put her hand on his chest. “Just do what feels nice.”
He phased under her fingers, the energy sliding up her arm and into her belly. Vision’s normal body wasn’t capable of those types of sensations, of that act, but his human form was all nerves and warmth and most definitely ready for her. They fell into each other, fumbling with awkward moves and touches, but when he slid inside, everything clicked into place.
After, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, whispering, “Was it good?”
She stared up at him and knew that she could fall in love with this man. “Yeah, it was good.”
Wanda scrolls through the pay-per-view menu, and the idea of Rogers seeing porn on his credit card bill almost makes her laugh. None of it looks appealing anyway, but she still slides a hand down and touches herself. A brush, a stroke. Nothing. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine it’s Vision touching her. Careful at first, and then perfect, whispering her name over and over. She rides those waves until it’s complete, but when she opens her eyes, he’s not there. Something breaks inside her, and the tears make her gasp. She sobs, stinging and furious, until she crashes into sleep.
***
DAY FIVE
***
Just like everywhere else, the bank is a madhouse. Wanda is stopped at the door by an employee buried in his iPad. “Line up over there for the reintegration paperwork.”
“I’m here for the safe deposit boxes.”
“Oh.” He looks up, startled. “Um, I think it’s the double doors in the back corner.”
Wanda looks around, finally spotting them through the crowds. She approaches, and nobody stops her at the doors. Following the signs in the hallway, she finds the spot. “Yes?” another young man barks at her, like he’s annoyed at being distracted from his own iPad.
“I need to open a box.”
“We’re not setting up new accounts right now.”
“No, I have a box. I need it opened.” His irritation rubs off on her.
“Fine. Give me the barcode and your ID.”
Wanda reaches in the envelope for the key with the barcode attached by a fob, and hands it over while she rummages around for the fake driver’s license she’d conjured last night. Irritation gives way to nerves. She’d spent most of a sleepless night wondering what on earth Vision could’ve stowed away in this box, why it was so important that it had to be kept in a New York bank instead of the Avengers’ compound. Even after imagining every possibility, she still has no idea.
The young man looks up at her. “You’re not the account holder. Are you next of kin?”
Wanda isn’t sure what that means, but she says “Yes” anyway. Then he continues, “Never mind, you’re on the list of authorized claimants. Follow me.”
He leads her into a vault and to a slot that’s too high for her to reach but would be at Vision’s level. She hands over the key and waits as he climbs a stepladder and pulls out a long steel box, carrying it over to a table. Then he steps away so that she can open it.
Two envelopes: one document-sized, and the other creamy white like an invitation. Her hands itch to open them, but not here.
***
On the way back to the hotel, Wanda stops at a bodega for junk food and a bottle of wine. Never been much of a drinker, but she has a feeling she’ll need it. As she rides the hotel elevator to her floor, she clutches the large manila envelope with burning fingers, something she can’t pinpoint swirling in her belly.
Her fingers shake as she fumbles around in a drawer for a corkscrew, and she stabs her palm with the sharp point when she opens the bottle. A swig of wine to steel herself, then she tears open the first envelope.
Last Will and Testament of Vision.
In the event of my death, I bequeath all of my possessions to Ms. Wanda Maximoff. She will also maintain the sole authority to determine the dispensation of my remains. If I am joined or preceded in death by Ms. Maximoff, these rights shall transfer to Mr. Anthony Stark.
Signed,
Vision
April 15, 2018
Frozen, Wanda stares at the date. Two weeks ago. Two weeks and five years ago. Four days before he flew to Edinburgh. Eight days before she killed him.
When she’d opened the hotel room door to him, he’d held out flowers, like a gentleman suitor. In return, she had nearly tackled him, desperate after too long apart. For three nights, he would curl himself around her in bed, making love or just talking about nothing. They’d walked around the city in the daylight, him with his blond hair, and her with a faint masking spell. So normal. He’d stammered out a suggestion that they be a proper couple, and she’d just smiled, wondering how he didn’t know that they already were. And all the while, this document -- signed, notarized, official -- waited in a steel box, like a proposal. A commitment.
She pours another glass of wine, sipping it slowly as everything sinks in. And then she reaches for the other envelope. Creamy white, like an invitation. Holding her breath, she unfolds it. A deed. A house. A heart. To grow old in.
He could have been her husband.
Wanda corks the wine and clears off the bed, carefully slipping the deed and will back in their envelopes. Pulling at her palms, she casts a sleeping spell. She needs her rest. Tomorrow she has work to do.
***
DAY SIX
***
Steve Rogers is not answering his phone. She’d memorized all those burner and rerouting numbers when they went on the run. Seven have been disconnected, three just ring and ring, and one goes to voicemail. Wanda doubts he’ll listen to it, but she says, “I need information. Call me back as soon as possible.”
He’d told her to call if she needed anything. Well, she needs something now, more than anything she has ever needed before. But he wasn’t at the funeral, and now he’s not answering. Wanda tries to think of anyone else who might have that information. Banner didn’t disappear for five years, but she doesn’t have any contact info. Clint could help, except she doesn’t think he stays in touch with the others. She glances at the brown envelope and notices the phone number neatly written on the front. Pepper Potts. She would know.
She dials the number and goes through the maze of prompts and assistants, until the other woman’s voice comes over the line. Wanda starts, “Sorry to bother you, but --”
Pepper immediately replies, “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”
“I need to know what happened to Vision --” Wanda bites her lip, “to his body after Wakanda.”
There’s a silence long enough for Wanda to feel stupid for asking. Then Pepper says, “Oh, god, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that.”
Wanda is tempted to reply you’re not the only one, but she doesn’t.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can find out and call you back.”
Wanda gives her the burner phone number and mutters a thank-you. She’s not sure she can handle another conversation -- this one was hard enough -- but she needs to know.
Cross-legged on the bed, Wanda stares at the phone for what feels like an hour. She turns on the TV, in need of a distraction, but of course the news stations are full of reunited families and experts talking about what it all means. She flips through the stations and finds a rerun of Friends. She remembers Papa bringing home a DVD. She and Pietro didn’t really understand all the grown-up stuff, but Mama loved it.
Then the phone buzzes. Hand shaking, she answers.
Pepper gets right to business. Wanda likes that. “Steve and Tony took him to a facility we were setting up near the cabin. I know he and Bruce were going to explore ways to repair -- um, to bring him back. But everything was absolute chaos back then, and a military squad breached the facility and took him before we could even blink.”
Bile rises in Wanda’s throat, coupled with a flash of anger. All she can force herself to say is, “Okay.”
A long pause, then Pepper continues, “I wasn’t able to find out anything certain after that, but Bruce thinks that he’s at a SWORD facility in Maryland.” If he hasn’t already been sold for vibranium scrap hangs in the air.
“Where is it?”
Although Wanda has barely spent more than a few minutes with this woman, Pepper seems to know exactly what’s on her mind. “I’ll text you the GPS.” She pauses again, and Wanda waits for something corny like don’t forget to take backup, like in a movie. But Pepper just says, “Be careful, all right?”
She disconnects and stares at the phone until the text arrives. Tapping on the link, Wanda pulls up the directions. 207 miles. Tomorrow’s Friday, so she can’t wait. First thing in the morning. She reserves a rental car online, with a 6am pickup.
Wanda spends the next half-hour straightening up the hotel room, not that she had made much of a mess to begin with. She rinses her underwear in the sink and hangs them on the shower rod to dry, then folds the clothes back into their shopping bags. Maybe she should run down to the gift shop for a suitcase, but it just seems pointless. She can’t think that far in the future.
All the while, her mind keeps playing over the news about Vision. His fate. For some stupid reason, she’d just assumed that he was still in Wakanda, his body falling to dust. Mingling with the soil and all those green trees. She mutters to herself, “It’s what he would’ve wanted --” except she doesn’t know what he wanted. They’d never discussed awful things like death, even though it always hovered in the air around them. They’d talked about the future a few times. She remembers that first night in Scotland, tracing patterns on his chest as she’d laughed and said, “Can you imagine the two of us with a house in the suburbs? You mowing the lawn while I go grocery shopping? Getting in an SUV for the commute to the Avengers compound?”
He’d tilted his chin in that funny way of his and said, “We shall see.”
But that night, he’d lied to her by omission. Vision had already bought them a house, or at least the promise of a house to come. A place for them to grow old together, in faith that she would say “yes”. And now he’s gone.
Tomorrow, she is going to take him home.
***
END