She’d been back for two hours, after a week of absence from herself.
And she couldn’t go on like this. Go on living in a world without her. It hurt beyond words to think. To remember that which had never happened.
So there she was, on that cliff again, with a photograph and a revolver. A last-ditch effort to fix this. A stolen revolver she had stolen again. It seemed appropriate. An empty heart, determination and desperation, proportioned and refined into the last drops of her fuel. She’d escape her hell somehow.
He’d come up to get a good look at the town. Get a proper view of the place he’d be living in from now on. A place to call home. The mere concept of home seemed almost alien by now.
He’d come here to check the place out and quietly install some radio equipment, not talk a girl down from killing herself. But he was probably the best person in town to do this.
He looked into her face, her eyes.
Saw that defeated, destroyed, desperate expression. Saw everything he needed to know. Talking her out of it was easy when you could read people like he could. She told him everything. She didn’t know why. Desperation probably.
He told her he could help. He showed her he could at least try. She didn’t entirely know why he was doing it, but the help was welcomed.
By the end of the day, they had a plan. They could fix this. She would get her back. He would call in some help. All they needed was a few seconds.
They wouldn’t survive, but that was OK. They wanted to forget all of this anyway.