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Her blood is staining the grass as it leaks out of her body into the earth.

Knots of colour swirl in the clouds behind the dancing leaves, and the branches fashion broken glass out of the sunrise. The wind kisses her skin like a gentleman. And it's sunny — so, so sunny. The ground is cool, and the day is sweet.

A great day for a photograph, she thinks as she squints up at her lover, watching the breeze play with his lovely golden hair.

She softly calls his name, but he doesn't meet her gaze; his dark eyes are transfixed on something she can't see — something far away, and she's suddenly gripped with a panic— with a fear— with the sudden urge to grab him. She needs him to crouch beside her, to stroke her hair, to touch her lips, to breathe some of himself into her like he did last night... She doesn't want him to leave.

He stares blankly, already lost.

Because her blood is staining the grass as it leaks out of her body, and there is a gun in his hand.

 

*

 

They leave him in the time travel chamber with old money, vague directions, and two photographs. One is a mugshot of her now: a pale-eyed woman with a deep scar along her right cheek, hollowed and harsh in the prison light — that one, he crumples and discards immediately.

The other is hard to look at. It's of a teenage couple: a seventeen year old girl laughing as her boyfriend teasingly sprinkles crushed daises over her hair. She's unconventionally pretty, and her eyes are alight with a vitality that can only belong to someone in love.

And he is the boy beside her.

In thirty-seven years, the girl with the flowers in her hair plants a bomb that kills his parents and blows his little sister's legs off.

But he can't tear his eyes from the picture of himself even though he's looked at it at least a dozen times. It still makes him shiver.  Because he knows himself, and he knows his smile, and he knows when it's fake and when it's real. And he's wary of what made him— No,  what will make him smile like that. Has he forgotten that he's standing beside a lunatic? Beside a murderer?

Not everyone gets an opportunity to change the past. He can't mess this up. His parents' savings won't last for much longer, and his sister won't survive another operation. Three funerals await him should he return with a loaded gun.

There isn't time for a second chance at fixing this.

 

*

 

She finds it in his jacket pocket one day, and asks, "Where's this from? I don't remember taking it."

His eyes widen as a cold sweat settles on his skin, the hair at the nape of his neck rising. His heart races; he's breathing too quickly — it's far too obvious that he's frightened. But all she does is drop the photograph on the kitchen table, and grin up at him. "Shall we take it tomorrow?"

 Does she know? his mind is screaming. How could she know!?

When he doesn't answer, she pulls his face down and gives him a light kiss. "I'll drive."

 

In the car the next day, she finally asks him. Her hands are tight on the steering wheel, but her voice is steady. When she speaks, he only glances at her before his gaze flits back to the scenery outside the window.

"Are you going to tell me or not?" she repeats after a few minutes of silence.

The seconds tick by.

 "I know you know," he mutters eventually. The trees fly by too fast, and his throat feels constricted. He's choking on this moment. "You've already worked it out."

She doesn't hesitate. "So what?"

He silently pushes the heavy gun off his lap in reply.

"Is it so bad that I want to hear it from you?" She suddenly swerves off the road and stops the car. "I read a few message on your phone last month, okay?" Her gaze burns his flesh. "The photo just helped me make sense of it. It proved it. But..."

"Please don't make me say i— "

"I need to hear you say it!" His eyes meet hers; she's crying, her face flushed and determined, but she hasn't noticed. "H-How am supposed to do this if you can't even...?" She gulps down some air. "I need— " Her hand covers her mouth to stop a sob. "Why... I don't know what..."

He pulls her into his arms without a second thought. How's he meant to kill this girl? She's innocent! She's his— She's his...

She is his.

Her shaky breaths waft across the nape of his neck as she curls into his body. "The last six months were the best of my life, you know," she mumbles, using the heel of her hand to wipe away her tears. "The best."

He grits his teeth. "I won't do it." She tries to wrench herself away, sounds of protest already leaving her mouth, but he tightens his hold on her. "No! I won't. How can I? You haven't... You haven't done anything wrong."

She laughs weakly. "Yet." She hugs him fiercely, her hands suddenly gripping the fabric of his shirt. "I don't want to grow into that monster." She sniffs, crying again. "I'm asking you. Please."

He's holding her so close he's sure he can feel her heartbeat through her skin. His fingers spread out across her waist. He's speechless, because how can he kill her? How? How!? He doesn't need the future if she's not in it.

But then he feels her ghost a kiss against his throat, the corners of her lips upturned. "Keep the picture, okay?" she murmurs against his neck.

 

*

 

She dies smiling, with crumpled flowers framing her face.

He squints at the sky, then drops the gun, and walks away. And it takes all the strength in his body not to look back.