My story is not my own, it's ours. Mine and Vaughan's. Except I can't remember it. Or him. I only know who I was before, and when remembering proved to be too much, I moved on and started over. And then the dreams started. Vivid, and bold, filled with a face I didn't know. But he was always there. In my head. In my heart. And when I decided to put pen to paper, I found him whispering, "Come back to me." Some stories are meant to be rewritten. Others are meant to be relived.