Silence.

He had expected to be greeted by a vicarious laugh, a friendly hello, a gesture of welcome—but as David stepped over the threshold and into the empty hallway of the apartment, only sheer quietness surrounded him, and as he stood there, contemplating, he suddenly knew why.

"Sarah?" he called, taking off his coat and draping it over one of the kitchen chairs as he walked by.

He peered into the living room, opened the door of the bathroom and glanced inside. She wasn't there.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised. Sarah had gone off on her own little excursions now and again in the past, and this should have struck him as nothing new. After all, whenever she did have a lapse of depression—stemming from her old friend's deaths—she almost always went home to visit her mother and would return within a day's time.

Who knew what she did when she was there, except sit nonsensically by Eric and Shelly's gravesites and speak gibberish to them. He knew because he had heard it.

David had gone with her to the cemetery when they had first started dating. The way she was so comfortable with talking to their headstones had made him feel uncomfortable. He had only gone with her for support, and even then, it had been hard for him to understand how her heart had been so devoted in them as friends.

He had never had a friendship like that before, so he had found it hard to relate. So much so that now, now that she was gone, albeit temporarily, he had a hard time stifling the bitterness that was beginning to rise within him as he searched the apartment for her in vain.

David ventured into the bedroom—their bedroom—and his eyes widened as he observed the horrific state it was in. The whole room was an absolute disaster. The bed looked as if it had been nearly overturned, with the mattress almost half way off the bed frame.

She probably had another nightmare, he wagered.

The curtains hanging against the windows were unevenly draped—one of them even appeared to be ripped at the bottom. Scattered on the floor, there was everything from sheets to clothes to papers—early drafts of some of her latest drawings, he guessed—all of it strewn in a cluttered mess that would probably take forever to clean up.

His curiosity was piqued, however, as he was stepping over the debris and picking up haphazardly placed articles of clothing when he saw a strikingly familiar picture, worn and tattered at the edges, on the edge of the bed.

He wrinkled his brow in confusion as he reached down to pick up the photograph. It was a picture of Sarah's friend—well, one of them—and it made David exhale a taut, pursed lip breath of frustration.

Draven.

He stood still for a moment, contemplating.

He had left several days ago. She was here when he left. He left her sleeping. He remembered how peaceful she had looked before he had left for his trip. He had kissed her forehead with a promise to be back as soon as he could, and had tucked the covers around her shoulders. She had smiled, eyes closed, murmuring something about not wanting him to go.

He had promised her that they would continue with the wedding plans the moment he returned. They were going to meet with the decorator in prospect for their wedding next April, and pick out the flower arrangements for the hall.

He had told her he loved her—with no reply. He had assumed she had fallen fast asleep.

David blinked as the fog of memory cleared from his mind, and he lowered his head to look down at the picture in his hand.

If she had been looking at Draven's photo again, then that's likely where she had gone— after nearly tearing the house apart in dismay—and the thought made him want to scream.

He ruthlessly tucked the picture into his pocket and turned on heel to head for the door.

This had to stop. He had to find her, bring her back, remind her—

For the last time, his mind raged—

That her place was not among the dead. She belonged with him, and him alone, and these little cemetery get-a-ways were now unacceptable. He had put up with this long enough.

He slammed the door shut and left the mess—and the useless, unadulterated memories—behind him.

All without seeing the wayward pair of eyes that watched him go.