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changehistoryEverything always came back around, in the end, Adam thought. He'd left London after the end of the War, making his way back to America, to Los Angeles that time, to a wife who'd betrayed him and reminded him just how much he'd lost through the years. After her, there had been a time of hope, though, when he finally found those like himself, found a way to maybe build a new home, a place for himself in the world where he didn't have to hide.
But it had all gone to Hell as quickly as so many other good things in his life had, and the last few decades had been nothing but betrayal and pain and loss.
So, he'd returned to the place where it all began, the birthplace he'd only rarely let be home after he fled the first time all was lost. Maybe it would be different this time. Maybe not. But if nothing else, no one would think to look for him here. He'd watched as things imploded in America, kept informed in that way he always had managed by people he still knew, and didn't look back. They'd made their beds, let them lie in them. He'd gotten out with his skin intact, and he wasn't going back to risk losing it, not for any of them, not after what they'd done.
Why save those who wouldn't save you, or who didn't truly want to be saved?
He bought a townhouse, settled into the anonymity of the city, moving into the rhythms of it, but found his feet tracing old paths past buildings that held nothing but ghosts overlay whatever had moved in and tried to oust him. God, but why he bothered, he didn't know. Maybe he should have gone to Australia, instead. That would have been new.
Still, slowly he found a place for himself, sort of. He found a pub he liked, and musicians to play with now and again, and caught up on theatre and film and television and books and music he had missed, and busied himself with acquainting himself with life in the 21st century, and time passed.
It was raining today, a cold rain where you wanted to curl up by the fire with a book and a whiskey and someone or something to pet, but since the cat was hiding under the bed, and Adam found himself down at the corner pub instead, nursing a pint at the bar, watching a football match and chatting with a couple of the locals who'd braved the weather instead. It was all so very normal, he had no idea what to do with himself, but he assured himself it was the waiting period, the calm before the storm. He'd come up with something else, some other plan, some other way to move forward.
He just needed to get his feet back under him first, and then everything would be fine. A sign would come along, and he'd know it, and then he'd be back.
But it had all gone to Hell as quickly as so many other good things in his life had, and the last few decades had been nothing but betrayal and pain and loss.
So, he'd returned to the place where it all began, the birthplace he'd only rarely let be home after he fled the first time all was lost. Maybe it would be different this time. Maybe not. But if nothing else, no one would think to look for him here. He'd watched as things imploded in America, kept informed in that way he always had managed by people he still knew, and didn't look back. They'd made their beds, let them lie in them. He'd gotten out with his skin intact, and he wasn't going back to risk losing it, not for any of them, not after what they'd done.
Why save those who wouldn't save you, or who didn't truly want to be saved?
He bought a townhouse, settled into the anonymity of the city, moving into the rhythms of it, but found his feet tracing old paths past buildings that held nothing but ghosts overlay whatever had moved in and tried to oust him. God, but why he bothered, he didn't know. Maybe he should have gone to Australia, instead. That would have been new.
Still, slowly he found a place for himself, sort of. He found a pub he liked, and musicians to play with now and again, and caught up on theatre and film and television and books and music he had missed, and busied himself with acquainting himself with life in the 21st century, and time passed.
It was raining today, a cold rain where you wanted to curl up by the fire with a book and a whiskey and someone or something to pet, but since the cat was hiding under the bed, and Adam found himself down at the corner pub instead, nursing a pint at the bar, watching a football match and chatting with a couple of the locals who'd braved the weather instead. It was all so very normal, he had no idea what to do with himself, but he assured himself it was the waiting period, the calm before the storm. He'd come up with something else, some other plan, some other way to move forward.
He just needed to get his feet back under him first, and then everything would be fine. A sign would come along, and he'd know it, and then he'd be back.
