First of all, hi guys. Sorry for this author's note, but I think that this is best, at the beginning of this chapter, just for the flow and how I want to end this story. I love you guys. Seriously, you all are amazing. Silent readers or not, thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read my little fic here. It means so much to me. I'm sad that this is ending.... I'll really miss this. 

The quotes are all from songs except for one chapter with the "one mans trash is another mans treasure" since I just loved that quote and felt it went well with the chapter. All of this story are devised from my very own mind, with few influences from other books or anything.

So, since I don't want to never talk to any of you guys again, feel free to friend me, or to PM me, or talk to me on my wall. I love new conversations:) the only thing I ask is that you guys give me a little feedback. I don't care if it's one sentence and you tell me that top dances better than I write. I don't care. Just tell me how I did. 

i hope you guys like both this chapter and the next, and this chapter 

Thank you so so much. Maybe we'll meet again in a story of mine or a story of yours. 

Nothing is impossible. 

"'I'll see you in the future when we're older

and we are full of stories to be told.

Cross my heart and hope to die,

I'll see you with your laughter lines.'"

40 Years Later

The waves tossed an abandoned water bottle to the sand, leaving it behind as the salty blue-black dragged long-gone rock into its iron grip.

Just meters away, a trail of footprints is imbedded in the damp beach, the only sign of human life for miles. If one would follow those footprints, from an old, time-worn house in yellow and white, chipping and rotting underneath the porch stairs starkly empty and yet all too full, down a wind-worn path of pale boards to the beach, they would have to step through clouds of memories, hanging in the air clotting around these footprints, as visible as the morning light.

One would look back apon that house and see through the stepper's eyes; one's eyes would be drawn to a space just beyond a pair of doors, and when they would blink, they would see the shadow of a crumpled figure on the ground and a man standing above, and blood strawn across the ground. Their eyes would skitter next to a stone wall, the plaster crumbling, and see themselves, 40 years younger, sitting with their knees drawn to their chest and eyes cast to the ground. Then they would look up to the second floor, and they would see a window, and they, in a flash, would be shot back to the past- to a darkened room, to a vase filled with red, a bloodied hand held up to the light, a jaggedly-sharp smile. 

They would flinch back as if shot, and their eyes would darken to pools of nothing. But then one would, in mimic of the stepper's actions, squeeze their eyes shut, and when they would open again, and they would be in the present again, and their past would be just that: the past.

They would take a breath, they would set their strong mind, and they would continue. They would look through the dirtied windows of the kitchen, and remember four other men, all now wrinkled with age, standing in the warm light. They would trace the path of the downstairs hallway with their eyes, and one would then begin to move on.

One would follow this old one's feet down the beach, and they would stop just before the sand. Their eyes would trace a path from a spot near the tide line to the back door of the house, and fail to summon up an image of that time, for the viewer can not see what the one before did not. 

Then, continuing on the journey, they would follow the imprints past a fire pit that still, if you could look into the grains of time, held the ashes of a pack of cards, past endless waves. 

They would fight off the rising darkness with the strength they had gained after they had survived, and they would not succumb to it: they will accept it, knowing that this darkness is part of who they are. Knowing they wouldn't change what had happened here or elsewhere 40 years ago, because it had forged such a bond between them and one another that is so powerful, none can break it.  

One would continue their path of footprints for a long, long time, and as they did, one would feel something settling inside, something they didn't realize was loose before. 

Finally, one would follow these footprints until they could go no more. For in front of them stood a man, and this man turned toward this striver of the footprints. This man would smile, and it would be as if his scars and his wrinkles and his laughter lines were no more. 

This man would incline his head, respecting this one that had dared to follow him in his journey. This man would look apon the follower with such kind eyes, eyes that held such depths of warmth in them, the follower would feel as if he were home, although the clearing they were standing in was, thankfully, not their home. 

The man would look behind him, and then back. "Look well, the faithful shadow of my footsteps," he would say, and the shadow would obey. 

One would look at this clearing, and see the blood it held. It would see the loosing of hope, the pain, the horrible feeling of emptiness. One would see a moment of terrible submition to the chasing evil. One would see a great and terrible battle, and one would shrink away from the fear that rests here. 

But then, one would look closer. And then, one would see something they had missed before. One would see love. Love, and determination, and acts of bravery, and acts of goodness, and acts that if the actor had not possessed a great amount of courage would never have been done. One would see this ill-fated place in what it was: terrible, but also wonderful, for it is a place of freeing. 

The listener would turn back to the kind man. The man would met his reader's eyes, and he would nod, ever so slightly. 

"Have you learned?"

"I have," this follower would say, and the man would smile. 

"Thank you," he would say. He would take a step towards the follower, and then the listener would feel an urge to hold out their hand. So they would, and the man would place something in their hand with time-softened fingers, and then close one's fingers around, until there was a tight-lipped cage. He would wrap his hand around the cage. 

"Thank you, and now, it is time to go. It is time to take what you have learned." 

"Thank you," the reader would say, but the shadow would not move. 

The man would look into the shadow's eyes, and the crow's feet around his eyes would crinkle. "I set you free. May both my gift and your memories be a guide for your future. May you be strong, young one. May you never lose faith in the ones you love." 

A gentle clasp released its hold on the follower's heart, and they were able to step back. 

The man stepped back as well. As he did, he lifted his face to the sky, and he looked as if he were a hawk about to fly. He looked so free. 

The listener peeled back their fingers, one by one. But what lay on his palm was so simple; nothing. It was nothing, and yet it was everything. 

The shadower looked up, but the old man had already faded into the shadow of the sun.