Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He opens his eyes, gasping for breath. The screech of tires, the shock of impact, and the sharp twist of metal all linger in his mind, but instead of being trapped under a crumpled car, he finds himself lying on a soft bed in a familiar room. His body aches, his legs heavy and numb beneath the covers. Panic surges through him, but then his gaze falls upon the pale, ornate ceiling, and he hears he’s not alone.

Faint groans and whispered voices drift through the air, and he realizes it’s not just him—there are others. The distant sounds of men in pain, wounded like him, fill the space. Beds line the room, the telltale rustle of sheets and labored breaths a reminder of the war’s toll.

His breath quickens. This is impossible.
He knows this room. He knows the feel of the bed beneath him. Slowly, gingerly, he turns his head. His heart pounds as his eyes land on the window. Beyond the curtains, morning light spills across the familiar grounds. His pulse races, disbelief settling deep in his chest. This can’t be real.

He tries to move, to sit up, but a sharp pain seizes his back, forcing him to sink into the pillows. The agony is all too familiar. Panic flares as he tries to shift his legs—nothing. He can’t feel them. His chest tightens, cold dread rushing through him. He knows this too well. The numbness, the heaviness—the nightmare that had once been his reality has returned.

Before he can process it all, he hears footsteps and tenses, staring as Doctor Clarkson emerges beside his bed. The older man stops abruptly when he sees Matthew's eyes wide open, the surprise unmistakable on his face.

“Mr. Crawley,” Doctor Clarkson says softly, stepping closer to the bed, disbelief flickering in his voice. “You’re awake.”

His breath quickens, but the words stick in his throat. The memories crash over him in waves—the crash, the blood, the life that slipped through his fingers. And now, this. The past. His body trapped again in the same broken shell.
Clarkson approaches cautiously, his gaze sweeping over Matthew with clinical precision.

“You’ve been unconscious for weeks. We weren’t sure…” He stops himself, drawing in a breath. “How do you feel? Any pain?”

Matthew stares at him, struggling to find his voice. His body aches, but that isn’t what terrifies him. It’s the numbness, the dead weight of his legs that now grips him with fresh horror.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, laced with disbelief.

Clarkson’s expression shifts—steady, composed, but with a flicker of concern behind his eyes. He places a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, his voice calm and measured. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Your spine—there was damage.” He pauses, unaware that his words hit Matthew harder than he could possibly imagine. “We’ve been doing everything we can to help you recover, but it’s still early. Your body needs time.”

The doctor's voice fades as his mind spins. This was his past. His agony. But it wasn’t supposed to be anymore. He had lived through this once—recovered, healed, married Mary. They’d had a son. He had been happy, more than he ever thought possible. And then the crash, that awful crash.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he breathes, staring up at the ornate ceiling. His chest tightens, the weight of the impossible settling over him. “This already happened. All of this.”

Clarkson frowns. “What are you talking about? You’ve been recovering from your injuries—”

“No.” Matthew turns his head, locking eyes with the doctor, his voice shaking. “I’ve lived this before. The recovery, Downton, the war. But then I—” His breath catches. “I died. There was a car accident. After Mary… after our son.”

Clarkson stares at him, his expression carefully measured. “Mr. Crawley, you’ve been through a trauma. Your mind might still be—”

“I remember everything!” Matthew snaps, the intensity in his voice startling even him. He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. “I remember everything that comes after this.”

The room falls into uneasy silence. Clarkson’s hand still rests lightly on his shoulder, but Matthew can feel a thinly veiled alarm radiating off him. Doctor’s eyes dart over him as if searching for signs of deeper distress, of confusion or madness. Who wouldn’t think that? His words, impossible and disjointed, would sound like a delusion to anyone else. But Matthew knows what he knows. He has lived the future, seen it, and now, somehow, he’s been thrust back into this moment. But for what? How and why could this happen?

He clenches his fists against the sheets. "I need to see Mary." His voice is hoarse, desperate.

Clarkson hesitates, but nods slowly. "In time. Let’s take this one step at a time. You’ve just woken up, and your body needs rest."

He shakes his head, frustration surging through him. "I don’t have time," he insists, his chest tightening with urgency. "You don’t understand—"

Clarkson’s brow furrows slightly, and he takes a steadying breath, his tone soft but firm. "Mr. Crawley, I understand this is overwhelming, but we must take things slowly. Surely there are people here who’ve been waiting anxiously for you to wake—“

His mind races, trying to make sense of the disjointed thoughts swirling in his head. "Mary," he repeats, his voice cracking with emotion. "I need to see her. Please, Doctor, I have to tell her—"

Clarkson gently interrupts, surprise in his eyes. "Lady Mary? I understand how you feel, but I believe it might be best for you to see someone else first."

He stares at doctor, confusion deepening. “What? What do you mean?”

Clarkson hesitates, his tone soft yet firm. “Your fiancée, Miss Swire. She’s been waiting, hoping you would wake. I’m sure she’ll want to see you as soon as possible.”

The name hangs in the air, and Matthew feels it hit him like a shock. Lavinia. Lavinia. His mind had been so consumed with Mary, with the life they shared, that he had completely forgotten.

Lavinia. The woman he had promised to marry before everything changed. His heart pounds in his chest, the guilt swelling. She is alive, here in this moment, devoted to him as she always had been.

How could he forget?

Suddenly, the memory of her death comes rushing back, as vivid as if it had just happened.

A room full of terrified people. A faint sound of Lavinia’s labored breathing. Her skin is pale, almost translucent under the dim light, her strength fading with each passing moment.

She flutters her eyes open and though her body is so frail, there’s a soft, unwavering resolve in her gaze. She looks at him, voice a whisper, each word laced with finality.

“Be happy… for my sake. Promise me. That’s what I want.”
And then she’s gone.

A wave of nausea hits him to the core. His stomach turns, the weight of guilt pressing down on him, suffocating. He can still feel her cold, lifeless hand slipping out of his grasp, the image of her pale face burned into his mind. The words she had spoken to him cut through him now, sharper than ever.

For a long moment, he is silent, the two realities crashing together. Thank God, she’s still alive.

A deep unease crawles into his soul. Lavinia is here—devoted, waiting, just as she had been. The woman who had selflessly given her love, even as she lay dying, asking only that he be happy. But now, in this strange twist of fate, she is alive, and everything feels upside down.

How can he face her now? How can he look into her eyes, knowing what he knows—that his heart no longer belongs to her, or truth be told—never belonged to her? His mind races, trying to grasp what this all means. He’s been thrown back into a world where Lavinia is still a part of his life, where his promises to her still bind him, and where Mary should be nothing more than a distant thought, although she is everything . She, and the life and love they shared, their son…

What do I do now? The question rings in his mind, louder and more desperate with each passing second.

He opens his eyes, his chest heaving with emotion. He looks up at Clarkson, whose concerned expression is still fixed on him.

“When can I see her?” Matthew asks, his voice quieter now, unsure. The reality of it begins to settle, and the task ahead of him seems even more daunting. He knows he must face Lavinia. He owes her that much, at least.

Clarkson gives a reassuring nod. “I’ll let her know you’re awake. But I strongly recommend postponing all meetings until tomorrow morning for the sake of your health.”
As Clarkson leaves the room, Matthew leans back into the pillows, his mind swirling. Tomorrow Lavinia will walk through that door, as alive and as hopeful as she had been before everything unraveled.

Chapter Text

Doctor Clarkson stands before the family, his expression a careful balance of relief and caution. “Matthew has woken,” he says gently, his voice measured. “But he’s very weak, and his mind… well, it’s still a bit confused. I advise that he not be disturbed until the morning. He needs rest, and too much stimulation might be overwhelming right now.”

"Dear chap!" Lord Grantham exclaims, his voice filled with both relief and anticipation that fills the room. “You are absolutely right, Doctor. God knows Matthew needs his rest. And with this splendid news, we can rest as well.”

For Mary, the words hang in the air, but her heart begins to race. Matthew is awake. Relief surges through her, but it’s quickly overtaken by a wave of impatience. How can they be expected to wait until morning? She has to see him, even if only for a moment. Especially before Lavinia arrives.

From the very moment she saw those rough military stretchers carrying him—unconscious, pale, so fragile and yet so dear—it was as if a shock coursed through her. In that instant, she realized that true love might be something utterly mad, something beyond any logical explanation. You look, and you just know—he's imprinted in your soul forever. And you would walk through fire, face anything, for him. It doesn’t matter what lies ahead, what are the sacrifices.
It’s completely irrational, but at the same time, so deeply, undeniably right. And there is no other way—it would be better to die than to live without it.

And so, hours later, when the house has quieted and the others have respected Clarkson’s wishes, Mary slips through the hallways, her footsteps light and swift. She has an excuse to be in the hospital wing, after all—she a volunteer, helping care for the wounded soldiers, including Matthew.

She enters the room, her heart pounding in her chest. The air is thick with the sounds of the sleeping men, but her focus is entirely on him. Matthew lies still, his face pale against the pillow, his body frail, as if the inner strength she’s always admired in him has been drained away. Her eyes soften with an aching tenderness she rarely allows herself to show.
Quietly, she approaches his bed, her pulse quickening. He’s asleep, his brow furrowed, his head moving slightly on the pillow as if something troubles him in his dreams. A nightmare.

She leans closer, her heart aching at the sight of his distress. She reaches out, her fingers trembling slightly as they hover over his hand, unsure if she should wake him. His lips are moving, forming words just beyond her reach. At first, it’s a jumble of quiet murmurs, too soft to understand, but then she hears it—her name.

“Mary…” he breathes, his voice fragile and strained, as though calling out to her from somewhere far away.
Her heart skips a beat. She leans in further, listening, her pulse quickening.
“I’m sorry…” he whispers, the words dripping with sorrow. “…see him… one last time…” and then, as if carrying the weight of some unbearable burden, a single tear escapes from his closed eyes and rolls down his cheek.

She can't bear the sight of his suffering any longer. Without thinking, she leans in and presses her lips gently against the tear that glistens on his cheek. Her own eyes sting as she whispers, her voice trembling, “I’m here, darling. I’m right here.”

A sob catches in her throat, and tears spill down her own cheeks as she watches him, the weight of his anguish pulling at her heart. Slowly, the tension in Matthew's face softens, the torment of his nightmare seems to release its grip. His breathing steadies, and his body relaxes into a peaceful sleep.

Mary stays for a moment longer, her hand caressing his gently, as if to hold on to this fragile connection. But the flood of emotions overwhelms her, and she knows she has to leave before she completely breaks down. She wipes away her own tears, pulling herself together as best she can, and quietly slips out of the room, her heart racing and her mind swirling with everything she has just witnessed.

As she walks down the empty hallway, she fights to steady her breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions crashing inside her. But no matter how hard she tries, she can’t shake the image of Matthew’s tear-streaked face or the raw, unspoken love that lingers in her heart.

***********

The next morning, the sun has barely risen when Lavinia arrives at Matthew’s side. A faint smile trembles on her lips, but the strain of worry weighs heavily in her eyes. She approaches him, her movements slow, hesitant, as if she’s bracing herself for something unspoken. She sits beside him, her hands clasping one another tightly, as though holding on for strength.

“My darling,” she whispers softly, her voice thick with emotion. He stirs, his eyes fluttering open, still clouded with exhaustion. But as his gaze falls on her, something shifts inside him—an overwhelming wave of nostalgia and sorrow rises in his chest. Lavinia. Alive. Sitting right there before him, blooming and healthy, no sign of torments of a broken heart. For a brief moment, all he can do is stare at her silently.

She’s here, still loving him, waiting for him as if nothing had changed. But everything has changed. She doesn’t know that the man she loves—the man she’s looking at—is no longer the same. The Matthew she fell in love with is gone, replaced by someone who’s lived another life, one filled with memories she can’t even begin to understand.

He feels a pang of guilt as he looks at her. How can he lie to her? He can’t and won’t pretend to be that man she believes him to be. He realizes now that, even back then, he should never have hidden his feelings for Mary. He had buried them, hoping it would all pass, but it hadn’t. And now, everything is different. The life he shared with Mary, the joy, the birth of their son—it’s too vivid, too real. He can’t forget it, not for a second. Keeping this from Lavinia would be betraying the very core of who he’s become.

“Lavinia…” he begins, his voice low, uncertain, but carrying the weight of what he knows he must say. He can feel the words tightening in his throat. “I’ve changed. Something… happened to me, and I’m not the same as I was.”

Lavinia’s eyes widen slightly, her expression flickering between confusion and the creeping realization of what he means. She stares at him, the words hanging between them. “What are you saying? Did doctor Clarkson tell you something?” she asks, her voice soft but laced with the fear of what she already suspects.

He can’t meet her gaze for a moment. He knows she doesn’t understand the depth of what he’s saying—that he’s not just some poor cripple now, though oh, God! he is, and that reality will have to be faced later—but that he’s lived an entirely different life. He witnessed Lavinia’s death. He’s married to the love of his life and has received the most precious gift —a son. But how can he explain? He’s not even sure if he’s allowed to do so. Instead, he forces himself to speak again.

“I’m different now,” he continues, his voice steady but filled with a quiet intensity. “Something inside me… it’s changed, and I can’t go back to who I was. I… can’t.”

Lavinia is silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as the truth begins to settle in. Her breath catches in her throat, and she finally speaks, her voice trembling. “You still love her, don’t you? Mary.”

His chest tightens. He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is all the answer she needs.
Lavinia’s hands shake slightly, and she pulls them into her lap, trying to steady herself. “I suppose… facing death has a way of making people see the truth they’ve been hiding from.” Her words are soft, but there’s an edge of pain behind them. She looks down, tears welling in her eyes as the reality of it crashes over her. “I always knew, I think… deep down. But I hoped—” She cuts herself off, her voice cracking.
Matthew reaches for her hand, but she pulls away gently, her fingers trembling. “No,” she whispers, her breath hitching. “Not now. I need… I need to be alone.”

The sadness in her eyes is unmistakable, but there is also something which pierces him in a way he hadn’t expected. He can see that she’s holding back, that she’s refraining from saying the words that linger unspoken between them—the fear that Mary might not accept him now, not as he is, broken and incomplete. And he’s grateful to her for not voicing it, for sparing him that added pain.

She stands slowly, wiping at her tears, her shoulders sagging under the weight of what she now knows. Without another word, she leaves the wing. And in that moment, as deep guilt cuts through him like a knife, he silently vows that, if nothing else, he will do everything in his power to prevent her death, so sudden and unfair. It’s the least he can do—to protect her, to try and atone for the pain he’s caused. He can’t give her his heart, but he can try to save her life.

Chapter Text

The days drag on, one after another, and he is still confined to his bed though now he has been relocated to a private room—much more comfortable and quiet. His frustration grows with each passing day, and though he tries to keep his spirits up, the confinement wears on him. Finally, Doctor Clarkson arrives one afternoon, carrying his medical bag and wearing a cautious but encouraging expression.

“Good morning, Mr. Crawley. How are you feeling today?” Clarkson asks, pulling up a chair beside him.
He sighs, trying to mask his impatience. “Better, Doctor. But I’m still lying here, counting the ceiling beams day in and day out. I need to do more than just… exist in this bed.”

Clarkson chuckles softly. “Well, you’re in luck. I believe it’s time we start discussing some next steps. Your strength is returning, and I think it’s nearly time to move you to a wheelchair. If all goes well, we can try it by the end of the week.”

The mention of the wheelchair brings a strange pang of memory rushing back to him. He remembers vividly how he used to despise the chair back then—the confinement, the forced dependency it reminded him of. Funny, really, how something he once hated now feels like a lifeline, something he longs for more than anything else. It’s a bitter twist, yet here he is, welcoming it.

“So, I’d be able to get out of this room?”

Clarkson nods, his smile gentle but firm. “Yes, but only if you continue to improve. This will take some adjustment. It won’t be easy, and you’ll need assistance. But it’ll allow you a bit of freedom—to see the grounds, get some fresh air.”

He swallows, nodding, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not expecting miracles, but I can’t stay here indefinitely. I want to start… living again, even in small steps.”

But that’s not entirely true, is it? Of course, he’s expecting this miracle—the one that had already happened once before. And now he waits, he hopes, and he is terrified even to consider that it might not come true.

Clarkson’s expression softens. “One step at a time, then. I’ll arrange for the chair, and we’ll begin with short periods outside. It won’t be much at first, but you’ll build strength as you go.”
Matthew takes a breath, his gaze steady. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll do my part.”

Doctor Clarkson begins to leave but pauses at the door, considering something. He turns back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Mr. Crawley,” he starts, carefully choosing his words, “I’ve noticed something. Usually, when patients are confined to bed due to a serious injury, there’s a certain… gloom that takes over them. This dark attitude often gets in the way of their recovery. It’s natural, of course, but it can be a heavy weight to bear.”

He glances at Matthew, a small smile softening his face. “But you—you seem to manage to stay positive, somehow. It’s not an easy feat, but it’s the right approach. And I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see that. Optimism may not heal everything, but it certainly makes a difference.”
Matthew manages a small smile, touched by the doctor’s words. Clarkson gives him an encouraging nod before heading out, leaving him with a sense of renewed determination—and hope.

*************

With Lavinia having returned to Manchester to care for her father, the urge to confide in Mary has become almost unbearable for him; yet, he nevertheless forces himself to keep his distance. He won’t admit it but deep down, he’s haunted by a nagging fear that things might not go as they did before. In his current state—vulnerable, disabled—he feels deeply insecure. And what if this time he never stands again? What if he’s never able to be the husband he dreams of being for her? And yet, he clings to hope.

To protect her, and perhaps himself, he holds back his feelings. Their conversations are brief, carefully limited to light topics, even when she comes to visit, lingering by his bedside with that familiar, tender smile. He avoids looking at her for too long, lest his feelings betray him. Every glance and every word could be a risk, a slip that might reveal the depth of his love for her and the overwhelming desire to be close to her again.

He finds himself measuring his words carefully, leaving pauses where he wants to say so much more, reining in his emotions with all the strength he has. He knows he could frighten her—overwhelm her, even—with the torrent of emotions and memories he carries. So he hides it, letting her see only fragments of himself, always holding back, always cautious.

And when she leaves, he feels the familiar ache of longing he can’t act upon. Yet even in the quiet, alone with his unspoken love and uncertain future, he holds onto a fragile hope that, somehow, this second chance will lead them back to each other.

***********

One afternoon, Mary enters his room carrying a tray of tea. She moves quietly, not wanting to disturb him if he’s resting, but he is already awake, propped up against the pillows, his eyes turning toward her as she steps inside. His face softens at the sight of her, and for a brief moment, he allows himself to take her in—the grace in her movements, the gentle smile playing on her lips.

“I brought tea,” she says, her voice light as she sets the tray down on the small table beside him. “And I thought you might enjoy some company… unless you’d rather be alone?”

Matthew shakes his head, a faint smile forming. “No, please. Company is exactly what I need.”

Mary sits beside him, pouring the tea carefully, her gaze flicking to him now and then. She passes him a cup, watching as he takes it, his fingers still weak but steady enough. They sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, the familiar scent of tea filling the air between them.

“Is it too strong?” she asks, studying his expression as he takes a sip.

“No, it’s perfect,” he replies, giving her a grateful smile. “Almost as perfect as having you here.”

Mary raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Almost?”

Matthew chuckles softly, though he tries to hide the depth of emotion in his eyes. “Well, I’d hardly want you to think I’m so easily pleased.”

“Oh, but I think you’re far too difficult to please,” Mary teases, setting her cup down and folding her hands in her lap. “You never were an easy man to impress.”

He meets her gaze, the playful banter stirring something deeper within him. His voice softens, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “You impressed me from the start.”

Mary pauses, her teasing smile faltering, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. She clears her throat, looking away. “I… didn’t realize.”

“Of course you did,” he says quietly, unable to hide the warmth in his eyes.

For a moment, they’re both silent, the unspoken words hanging between them. Then Mary, sensing the tension, leans back and changes the topic, her voice light again. “Did I tell you about the incident in the stables yesterday?”

He raises an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. “No, but please, do. I could use a laugh.”

Mary begins recounting a story about one of the new stable boys who, attempting to impress the staff, managed to trip over a bucket and scare half the horses. As she tells it, her eyes sparkle with laughter, her voice carrying a warmth that fills the room. He listens intently, smiling at her expressions, feeling the familiar comfort of her presence wash over him.

“And then,” she finishes, struggling to hold back her laughter, “he actually tried to apologize to the horses. He stood there, bowing to them like they were royalty. I thought poor Molesley would never recover from the shock of it all!”

He laughs, the sound genuine and light, his eyes lingering on her face. “You know, Mary,” he says after a moment, his voice softer, “I could listen to you tell stories like that forever.”

Mary’s laughter fades, and she glances down, almost shyly. “If you let me, I suppose I might never stop.”

They share a long, quiet look, the weight of everything unspoken filling the space between them. His heart aches with the desire to reach out, to hold her hand, to tell her everything he’s kept hidden. But he pulls back, swallowing the words he can’t yet say.

Sensing his retreat, Mary straightens and clears her throat. “Well, I’ll come back soon with more stories then. But perhaps… if you ever want to talk about something other than stables and tea,” she says, her voice hesitant, “you can always tell me, you know.”

Matthew nods, giving her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mary. Truly. I… I’ll keep that in mind.”

She watches him for a moment, as though she wants to say something more, but instead, she rises, gathering the tray. “I’ll leave you to rest. And if you need anything…”

“I’ll call for you,” he finishes for her, his voice soft.

As she turns to leave, his eyes follow her to the door, his heart aching with everything left unsaid.

*************

Mary often watches as Isobel collects Matthew’s letters to Reggie and Lavinia, carrying them off to be posted. Each time, a pang of uncertainty stirs within her; she wonders if his heart is still bound to Lavinia. His dedication to writing them leaves her feeling unsure and, at times, quietly jealous. But she reminds herself firmly that, above all, she wants Matthew to be happy—even if that means his happiness lies with someone else.

She knows she has no right to demand his affection, not after everything that’s happened between them. And she will hold her head high, even when the ache feels sharpest, finding comfort in the knowledge that she has always stayed true to herself. Whatever may come, she knows she has the strength to bear it, just as she’s borne everything else.

Still, there’s something more. In the silent moments, she senses something different in his manner—a quiet depth in the way he looks at her, as if he sees through her carefully guarded composure. Sometimes, she wonders if he knows more about her past than she realized—specifically about Pamuk. The thought sends a chill through her, yet it’s tempered by the memory of his words.

Mary sits by Matthew’s bedside, carefully rearranging the medicine bottles on his bedside table in preparation for Doctor Clarkson’s visit. The room is quiet, save for the soft clinking of glass as she adjusts each bottle. Matthew shifts, attempting to get comfortable, wincing slightly with each movement. His vulnerability, usually hidden beneath his composed exterior, is unmistakable in this moment. Here is Matthew, always so strong and resilient, now in need of her help, unable to manage even the smallest of tasks on his own.

As she adjusts one of the bottles, their hands brush, and for a moment, their eyes meet. She tries to look away, not wanting to intrude on his pride, but his gaze holds hers—soft, unwavering, and filled with a warmth that catches her off guard.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine.

Mary feels her heart quicken, a tenderness she rarely allows herself to feel stirring inside. She manages a small smile, aware that he hates feeling so exposed, but he lets her be there for him, accepting her help without a word of protest.

After a few seconds of silence, he looks at her, his expression open, as if he can see right through the walls she’s built up around herself.

“Mary,” he begins, his voice barely more than a whisper but full of conviction, “there is nothing that could change the way I feel about you.”

The words hang in the air between them, gentle yet profound. She blinks, taken aback, unsure how to respond. It feels as though he’s looked right into her heart, as if he knows all her secrets, all the shame and regret she keeps hidden. It’s as if he understands the burden she carries and doesn’t care in the slightest.

“You don’t know…” she begins softly, her voice faltering, but he shakes his head, his gaze unwavering.

“I don’t need to know,” he replies, his tone filled with quiet certainty. “Whatever it is, whatever you’ve been through, it doesn’t matter. You’re still Mary.”

Her throat tightens, the vulnerability in his words reaching into a place she’s long buried. She tries to laugh, to brush it off as she usually does, but the look in his eyes holds her still.

“Matthew, I…” She hesitates, her voice catching, unsure if she can bring herself to speak. For so long, she’s feared that the truth of her past will taint everything good in her life, but here he is, seeing her completely and accepting her without hesitation.

Just then, the door creaks open, and Anna enters, carrying the books Mary has requested. She gives them both a quick, apologetic smile as she places the stack on the bedside table.

“Pardon me, milady, Mr. Crawley. I thought you might like some fresh reading material,” Anna says, her gaze flicking between them before she quietly excuses herself.

Mary quickly draws her hand back, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, though Matthew’s gaze lingers, soft and unchanged.

Feeling her emotions rising dangerously close to the surface, Mary stands, her fingers brushing lightly over the linens as she gathers herself. “I should leave you to rest, Matthew,” she says, her voice softer than she’d intended, almost a whisper.

He offers her a small, understanding smile. “Thank you… for everything.”

She nods, managing a tight smile before turning to go, willing herself to stay composed as she walks toward the door. But as she reaches the threshold, the weight of the moment pulls at her. She glances over her shoulder, only to find his eyes still on her, gentle and unwavering.
It’s too much. Her heart races, and she quickly turns, stepping into the hallway, where she lets out a slow, shaky breath. The warmth of his gaze lingers with her, even after she’s gone.

************

Some days later, Doctor Clarkson finally approves Matthew’s move to a wheelchair, and he’s eager to feel the freedom, however limited, of the grounds. Mary insists on pushing him through the gardens herself. As they move along the pathways, he breaks the silence, his voice tinged with hesitation.

“You’re right, you know. I haven’t been myself lately,” he begins, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Perhaps I’ve even frightened you with my behavior. But… if you could be patient just a while longer, if you could trust me… I promise you, I’ll find a way to make this right.”

Mary looks down at him, a mixture of concern and understanding on her face. She can sense that something troubles him deeply, something he isn’t yet ready to share. But with quiet resolve she nods, her voice soft. “I’ll wait as long as you need, Matthew.”
They continue to walk in silence, each of them holding back the words they can’t yet say.

***********

In the days that follow, he keeps writing to Lavinia, urging her to be careful as the new wave of influenza spreads. He’s aware of her father’s fragile health, and in his letters, he frames his worry as concern for Reggie. But in truth, his fears are for her. The thought of her dying again haunts him, and he can’t bear the idea of failing to protect her. He also writes to her father, gently encouraging him to keep Lavinia safe.

A reply from Reggie arrives a few days later. He unfolds the letter with a mixture of anxiety and relief, his fingers lingering on the edge of the paper as he reads:

"Dear Matthew,
Your concern for us is a comfort, and I assure you that we are not ignoring the gravity of the situation. Lavinia and I have decided it would be wise to leave for the countryside. Here, with fewer people around, we believe it will be safer for both of us until the epidemic has passed. Rest assured, we will be well cared for.
Yours sincerely,
Reginald Swire"

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. They’re taking precautions—it’s a step closer to keeping them safe.

He knows he can’t control the future, even with this strange knowledge of what’s to come. But he can’t sit still—not while there remains the smallest chance he might change it.

Chapter Text

It’s an unusually tense evening at Downton. The family gathers for dinner, the silver gleaming on the table as Lord Grantham breaks the news.

"Tomorrow, we’ll have a visitor," he announces, laying down his fork with a touch of drama. "Sir Richard Carlisle has managed, through some persistent connections, to secure an invitation."

Lady Grantham raises an eyebrow, setting her spoon back into her soup bowl with a soft clink.

"Carlisle?" she asks, the name unfamiliar. "And what’s prompted this sudden interest in Downton?"

Lord Grantham shrugs, maintaining a casual air. "Something about the neighborhood," he explains, waving his hand. "Perhaps he wants to buy the land, and he thought I could offer advice."

The mention of Carlisle alone stirs an instant, dark reaction from Matthew. He grips the fork tightly, his expression growing tense, his jaw clenching as the name rouses memories he’d rather leave buried.

He knows exactly why Carlisle is so insistent on this visit. The man has his sights set on Mary, and that’s the reason. What an arrogant bastard. The nerve of him to come here, to Downton, under the pretense of business, when in reality, he’s come to torment her. He clenches his fists under the table, fighting the urge to voice his suspicions aloud.

"Why him?" Lady Grantham wonders aloud, the faintest trace of unease in her voice. "Is he not… well, somewhat notorious?"

Lord Grantham shrugs again, clearly trying to brush it off. "Newspapers tend to exaggerate, my dear. He’s simply a man of influence, and men of influence tend to ruffle feathers. Besides, he’s highly recommended. I don’t see the harm in extending some hospitality."

“Well,” says Lady Violet, glancing around the table, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I suppose we’ll all have to be on our best behavior. Wouldn’t want the noble Crawley name to find itself ruined in the pages of some scandal sheet.”

Lord Grantham chuckles softly, hoping to brush off the concern. “Oh, Mother, you make it sound as if we’re welcoming a villain rather than an accomplished guest.”

Lady Violet sniffs dismissively, her lips pursing slightly. “An accomplished guest, perhaps. But I find it rather suspicious that a man of such… influence has such a sudden interest in Downton. After all,” she adds with a knowing smile, “a man who makes his living off other people’s secrets might not be the most suitable company.”

Matthew abruptly excuses himself from the table, retreating to the quiet solitude of his room. The rest of the family watches him go, a shadow of apprehension settling over them all.

“Well, I imagine tomorrow’s tea will be… most enlightening,” Lady Violet remarks dryly.

*************

The next evening at Downton, the grand dining room is filled with guests. Among them is Sir Richard Carlisle, his presence casting a subtle shadow over the otherwise cheerful gathering. As the meal begins, light-hearted conversation flows, the clinking of silverware punctuating the lively exchanges. Matthew, just a few places away from Mary, watches her intently, a mixture of jealousy and protectiveness clouding his gaze. He notes every glance, every word shared between her and Richard, each one stirring an unspoken unease.

As the conversation turns to marriage, one of the guests casually remarks on the joys of matrimony. With a smirk, Richard decides to weigh in, his tone smug. “Well, I’ve always believed there’s nothing wrong with a… transactional approach to marriage. After all, isn’t marriage often a merger of assets, reputations, and interests? It serves its purpose, and I don’t see why sentiment needs to complicate things.”

A few surprised glances are exchanged around the table. Lady Violet’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and she leans forward. “How very modern of you, Sir Richard. I know several couples who are perfectly happy. They haven’t spoken in years.”

A ripple of laughter sweeps through the room, though there’s a tension beneath the humor. Richard’s expression falters, but his confidence is unshakable, and he recovers quickly, offering Lady Violet a tight smile. Mary, seated close to him, tries to mask her discomfort, though the tension in her shoulders betrays her.

Soon, dinner ends, and the guests rise, drifting off into smaller groups to enjoy coffee and conversation. Under the guise of casual mingling, Richard maneuvers through the crowd until he finds himself alone with Mary in a secluded corner of the drawing room.

He smiles, his eyes glinting with a calculated charm. “Lady Mary,” he begins smoothly, his voice low, “I must say, I find Lady Violet’s wit… refreshing, though perhaps a touch antiquated.”

Mary’s posture stiffens, but she forces herself to maintain a polite smile. “My grandmother’s humor is one of her many virtues. I rather admire her honesty.”

Mary raises her chin, meeting his gaze, but her heart beats faster. She knows where this is going, yet she steels herself, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of showing any fear.

“Mary,” he begins, his tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial, “I think you know as well as I do that ours would be a marriage built on mutual understanding. We are both ambitious, driven, and practical. We see the world as it is, not through the rose-colored lens of romance. Together, we could accomplish quite a lot. Socially, financially… our influence would be considerable.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive murmur. “Marry me, Mary. I believe we would make an extraordinary match.”

Mary’s lips press into a thin line, a mixture of anger and disbelief flashing in her eyes. “And why, exactly, would I agree to such a proposal?” she asks, her voice as icy as she can make it. “What makes you so certain that I’d want anything to do with a marriage like that?”

Richard pauses, letting her question hang in the air, a faint, almost pitying smile playing on his lips. “I have my reasons,” he says, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. “You see, in my line of work, certain rumors have a way of crossing my path. Some of them… quite peculiar.”

Mary’s composure falters slightly, but she holds his gaze, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. He continues, his voice smooth, unhurried.

“There was a particular rumor,” he says, watching her closely, “involving a Turkish diplomat. One that, should it become common knowledge, could… let’s say… change your family’s standing quite drastically.” His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “But, of course, I’m a gentleman, Mary. I wouldn’t dream of holding such information over your head. I simply thought… that you might like to ruminate on the advantages of our arrangement.”

Mary’s face blanches. She has no doubt that he’s telling the truth. He knows. Yet, despite his soft words, the veiled threat is as clear as day.
Richard straightens, looking her over with that familiar smugness. “Take some time to consider it,” he says, a slight smile lingering on his lips. “I’m a patient man, and I think you’ll find this arrangement could benefit us both immensely.”

With that, he turns and leaves her standing there, her heart racing as the implications of his words settle over her.

************

The moment Matthew sees Mary in the hallway, he knows something has happened. Her face is pale, her eyes downcast, and she moves as though she’s carrying a burden too heavy to bear alone. Without thinking, he calls out to her, his voice gentle but insistent. “Mary.”

She stops, her shoulders tense, and slowly turns to face him. He approaches carefully, sensing her fragility but uncertain of how much she’ll allow him to see.

“Mary… did something happen?” he asks softly.

She studies his face, her own expression caught between vulnerability and defiance. “Sir Richard offered me something tonight,” she says quietly, “something that feels both terrifying and inevitable. And perhaps… perhaps I don’t have a choice, in the end.”

His face tightens, and despite himself, he can’t keep his expression neutral. A flicker of pain and frustration crosses his face, and he looks away, clenching his jaw. He tries to find the right words, to mask his emotions, but they threaten to spill over.

“Why do you hate him so much?” she asks suddenly, catching him off guard.

He hesitates, searching for an answer.
“It’s not that I… hate him, exactly,” he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “But I’ve seen men like him, people who believe they can take whatever they want without consequence. Carlisle strikes me as someone who values control above all else.” He forces a small, strained smile. “And, well, I don’t like the idea of him trying to control you.” I don’t like the idea of him near you at all.

Mary studies him, a spark of gratitude and sadness in her eyes. She nods slowly, sensing there’s more he isn’t saying but unwilling to push him further. “Perhaps,” she whispers, “but sometimes it feels as though we’re the ones who’ve brought these consequences upon ourselves.”

His face hardens, his protectiveness flaring up. He wheels closer to her, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. “You always have a choice, Mary. As long as I’m here, you can do whatever you want. If it means going in there and telling Carlisle to leave, I’ll do it for you—no hesitation.” He offers a faint, reassuring grin, hoping to ease the weight on her shoulders. “In fact, I’d gladly run him over with my wheelchair if that would help.”

A hint of a smile breaks through her solemn expression, and she lets out a soft, shaky laugh. But as the relief washes over her, she feels tears welling up, and she turns her face away, not wanting him to see the cracks in her composure. She blinks rapidly, trying to keep her emotions in check, but the effort leaves her unsteady.

As she turns, her heel catches on the edge of the carpet, and she stumbles. In an instant, he reaches out, his arms moving without thought, pulling her close to steady her. As he does, a sudden, unexpected strength surges through his legs. His muscles tremble with the effort, almost foreign to him after so long, and a sharp, tingling ache pulses through his thighs as they bear weight they haven’t known in months.

He wobbles for a moment, nearly losing his balance, and his heart pounds as he struggles to stay upright, his grip tightening around Mary. She clings to him instinctively, her eyes wide as she realizes he’s standing. The pain is intense, every movement sending shocks through his legs, but he doesn’t let go. His focus, entirely on her, gives him the strength to stay on his feet, holding her close as the disbelief and joy of the moment sink in.

They both look down at his legs, then back at each other, laughter bubbling up between them—a shared, joyous disbelief that fills the quiet hallway, their arms wrapped around each other in a fragile, beautiful balance.

She lets out a soft, breathless whisper, “Matthew, darling…”

The words are so gentle, so dear, that for an instant, he feels as though he’s been transported back in time, or technically, to a future he’s recently dreamed of—where she is his wife, where they belong to one another without hesitation or fear. The sound of “darling” from her lips melts every barrier he’s tried to keep between them, breaking down the walls he’s built around his heart.

In that fleeting moment, he forgets himself, his hand moving gently to her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. He wants to tell her everything he’s held back, the depths of his love and how much he’s dreamed of this moment, of standing beside her. For the first time, with her in his arms, he feels whole.

But then Mary’s gaze shifts, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face, and she pulls back slightly, steadying herself and offering a soft, practical smile.

“I should call Bates,” she says gently, “to help you get to bed.”

His expression falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. He nods, his hand slipping reluctantly from her cheek. "Of course," he says softly, though his heart aches at the distance returning between them. “Please, don’t tell anyone yet,” he whispers. “Let’s keep it just between us for now… until the guests are gone. Then, we’ll show them together.”

She nods and squeezes his hand, a quiet promise between them, before she moves to call for Bates.

*************

Later that night, Matthew lies in bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling. His heart races, and a surge of gratitude wells up within him. Thank God he can walk again. He can hardly believe it—the freedom, the possibility, the chance he now has to take control of his life and his heart.

Thoughts of Mary fill his mind, each memory stirring a deeper, more primal longing within him. He remembers the way her skin felt beneath his hand, soft and warm, the scent of her lingering close. The brush of his thumb along her cheek, innocent as it was, ignited something that has simmered within him for far too long—a desire that has remained unspoken, yet undeniably real.

He imagines her closer, her body pressed against his, the warmth of her breath mingling with his own. He pictures the way her eyes flutter closed as his hand glides down the delicate curves of her breast, the trembling whisper she releases when his fingers explore the ambrosial warmth between her legs, her hands wandering over his sweat-dampened skin, stripping him of sanity. His fingers curl against the bedsheets as he feels himself slipping into a blissful oblivion of sensation.

With each heartbeat, the distance between them feels more unbearable, and he aches with the thought of what it would mean to have her entirely, openly, without restraint. For the first time, he allows himself to truly envision a future with her—no matter what fate awaits him—a future where he can love her fully in every sense of the word. He knows now that his desire, his love, is as boundless as the strength he’s only just rediscovered.

Chapter Text

Mary sits at her dressing table, brushing her hair in slow, measured strokes. The fire in the hearth crackles softly, its warmth doing little to ease the knot of tension coiled in her chest. She stares at herself in the mirror, barely seeing her own reflection. Her mind is consumed with one thought, one suffocating reality.

Carlisle will ruin her. She has no doubt.

The disgrace will be absolute. Papa will be devastated. He will try to be strong, of course, for the family’s sake, but she knows how much his dignity means to him.

Mary presses her lips together, gripping the brush tighter.

She has no choice but to act before it happens.

For a moment, she considers fighting him. Standing her ground, daring him to do his worst. Perhaps she could go to Papa first, confess everything, and plead for his protection. But no—she knows how that would end. Even if Papa forgives her, he will not be able to stop the press. Her name will be splashed across every newspaper in England, and there will be no place to hide.

Then, suddenly, the thought comes.

Escape.

She cannot fight it. She cannot fix it. But she can outrun it.

If she leaves before the scandal breaks, she can outlast it. If she is gone when Carlisle speaks, there will be no Mary Crawley for the world to rip apart. She could disappear to America, where no one knows her name, where no one cares about a long-forgotten Turkish diplomat. She could vanish until the dust settles, and when she returns, perhaps things will have changed.

The thought of it makes her stomach twist.

America.

To be so far away from Downton. From everything she has ever known.

From Matthew.

The brush stills in her hand, and her breath catches.

Leaving means leaving him.

The idea of never seeing him again—of not knowing if he is well, if he is happy, if he ever forgives her—is unbearable. She can imagine it too clearly: hearing of his life from across the ocean, reading in some letter from Mama that he has married and settled, that he no longer thinks of her at all.

A dull ache spreads through her chest.

But worse than that, worse than the thought of losing him, is the thought of him finding out from someone else. Of hearing about Pamuk from the papers, from whispered gossip, from Carlisle’s own lips. She pictures the look on his face—the betrayal, the hurt.

Mary swallows hard.

She has been a coward long enough.

She has to tell him.

**************************

Every time she steps into the library now, it brings back the memory of that evening—one of the happiest she has known in a long time.

Carlisle had finally left, still waiting for her answer but taking with him the suffocating tension that had loomed over the house. And then, Matthew had gathered them all together, his expression unreadable at first, his hands braced on the arms of his chair. His mother had been the first to realize what was happening, gasping as she clutched Mary’s arm.

And then he looked at her.

Mary had barely been able to breathe under the weight of his gaze. There was something in it, something raw and determined, something that sent a shiver through her spine before she could even comprehend what he was about to do.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up.

She knew he wanted to make it a surprise, but now it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. She felt like she was witnessing it for the first time.

His arms trembled from the strain, his legs stiff, but he didn’t falter. He rose higher, steadying himself, until he was fully upright.

The room erupted into gasps and exclamations of disbelief, but Mary hardly heard them. She could only stare at Matthew, at the way his chest rose and fell, at the way his lips curled into a quiet, almost reverent smile.

His mother sobbed, hands clasped over her mouth.

“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re standing. You’re truly—”

“I am,” he said, but his voice wasn’t directed at his mother. He was still looking at her.

Mary felt something deep and unbearable twist inside her. She felt her lips part, an exhale escaping her, but no words would come. There was too much in her chest, too much in her throat. Blinking back the sting of tears, she could do nothing but hold his gaze and let him see everything she felt in return.

What a splendid moment it was. Among the joyful, teary faces of the people she loved, she almost forgot the weight of the grim, unknown future awaiting her.

****************************

Now, standing in that very same room, she watches him as he moves toward the fireplace, effortlessly upright, tall and composed. He is growing stronger every day. The lines of exhaustion that once marked his face are fading, and he looks—God help her—he looks more beautiful than ever.

This is the moment.

Mary inhales deeply, summoning every ounce of courage she has.

“Matthew.”

He turns at once, his blue eyes warm, curious. “Mary.”

“May I speak with you?” Her voice is steady, though a quiet strain lingers beneath it.

“Of course.” He steps closer, concern flickering over his features. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitates for only a fraction of a second before she lifts her chin, ensuring her tone remains measured. “I have made a decision.”

Matthew’s expression shifts, his easy warmth replaced by something more serious. “Go on.”

She clasps her hands together in front of her, carefully composed. “I will be leaving Downton.”

A silence settles between them, thick and heavy.

“Leaving?” he repeats, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

She does not look away. “I am going to America.”

His frown deepens. “America?”

“Yes.” Her voice remains calm, though the weight of the words presses against her chest. “There is… a matter from my past that has caught up with me, and I find that I must remove myself from the situation before it becomes unmanageable.” She exhales carefully, not allowing herself to waver. “It is the best course of action for everyone.”

Matthew watches her, his gaze unreadable. “For everyone,” he repeats, as if testing the words.

She nods, though her throat tightens. “Yes.”

“And when will you return?”

She hesitates. “I do not know.”

His jaw tenses. “I see.”

She presses forward, determined to say what must be said. “It pains me to leave, but I find I have little choice. And so I hope, when I am gone, that you will think well of me.” Her voice softens, though she keeps it steady. “And that you will be happy.”

Matthew remains silent for a moment, his eyes searching hers, as if trying to uncover something hidden beneath the composure she has so carefully arranged.

Without thinking, she reaches out and places a hand on his arm.

It is meant to be a simple gesture, a polite reassurance, but the moment her fingers press against the fabric of his sleeve, he feels it.

She is trembling.

Matthew’s frown deepens as he glances down at her hand, then back at her face.

Her composure is flawless—her posture straight, her expression carefully arranged—but now he knows. He can feel how hard she is trying to hold herself together, how fragile this elegant mask truly is.

And then he takes a step forward.

“Mary,” he says, slowly, carefully. “Is this a goodbye?”

She exhales, measured and quiet. “Yes.”

His entire body stiffens, as though bracing for impact. Then, after a moment, he shakes his head. “No.”

“I haven’t explained—”

“You don’t need to.”

Before she can say another word, his hands are on her face, his touch firm, desperate.

“No,” he whispers again, his voice raw. “Please—please, no.”

And then he kisses her.

*******************************

It is not gentle. It is fierce, urgent, filled with all the things neither of them has dared to say aloud. He pulls her closer, and Mary, overwhelmed and breathless, surrenders to it.

There is no hesitation, no restraint. Just them, standing in the quiet hush of the library, holding onto each other as if the world outside no longer exists.

His hands cradle her face, his touch both tender and possessive, yet his lips are fervent, exploring hers with an intensity that leaves her breathless. It’s as if he knows her body, knows every hidden nerve, every tender spot that makes her burn.

She is losing herself in him, her heart pounding wildly as his lips travel from her mouth to her jaw, lingering just below her ear—a spot she didn’t even realize was so sensitive until now.

He presses his lips there, softly, reverently, and she gasps, her knees nearly buckling.

“Mary,” he breathes against her skin, his voice ragged and full of need.

Her name on his lips is both a plea and a promise, and it sends a shiver through her that nearly undoes her entirely.

She fists her hands into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, and when he presses against her fully, she feels the solid strength of him—the way he trembles for her, the way his breath hitches when her fingers dig into his shoulders.

She is his, and even if he doesn’t fully understand it, he knows it.

It feels endless, eternal, as though time itself has stopped to allow them this moment, this desperate claiming of each other.

When they finally part, it is not by choice but necessity—the need to breathe. Their foreheads rest against each other, breaths mingling, both of them gasping softly in the aftermath.

Mary’s heart is racing, her cheeks flushed, and she realizes with a start that her hands are still gripping his shoulders, holding onto him as though he is the only thing keeping her upright.

Matthew doesn’t let go. His arms remain firm around her, as if he is still afraid she might disappear if he loosens his grip. His chest rises and falls against hers, his breath warm against her cheek, and she feels the deep, steadying inhale he takes as he tries to regain control.

He closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep, steadying breath before pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with emotions she can barely comprehend—desperation, longing, love.

“I need to tell you something,” he finally says, his voice rough, unsteady.

Mary is still trying to catch her breath, still feeling the ghost of his lips on hers, still reeling from the way he touched her like he knew her better than she knew herself.

But there is something in his voice—something that pulls her back from the fire and makes her focus.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard, his fingers tightening against her. “I don’t know how to explain it.” He lets out a breath, as though bracing himself. “And I know you won’t believe me.”

His words send a chill through her, stark and certain. She studies him now, the way his expression shifts, how his jaw tightens with something like fear.

“Matthew,” she says carefully, though her voice is still breathless. “What is it?”

He looks at her then, really looks at her, and for a moment, she sees something she doesn’t recognize—haunted, aching, something on the edge of desperation.

“When I woke up,” he says slowly, “after the injury… after everything… I woke up remembering something I shouldn’t.” He is shaking his head slightly, like he doesn’t even believe the words himself. “Something impossible.”

Mary stares at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

His hands tighten slightly on her waist, as though grounding himself. “I remembered another life,” he says. “A life that hasn’t happened. Or rather… one that happened before this.”

Her chest tightens. “Matthew…”

“I know how it sounds,” he says quickly, his voice hoarse. “I know you think I’m mad, but listen to me. Please.” He takes another breath, visibly forcing himself to go on. “I remember dying, Mary.”

A tremor runs through her.

“I don’t mean in the war,” he continues, shaking his head. “I mean in another life. I woke up after—after what I think was a car crash. I thought I had died. And in that life, Mary—” He swallows thickly. “We were married.”

The room feels impossibly still, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

“We had a life together,” Matthew presses on, his voice growing more unsteady. “Here at Downton.” His throat tightens. “And our son had just been born.”

A sharp gasp escapes her.

“He was just a newborn,” Matthew whispers, almost to himself now, his eyes unfocused as if the memory is pulling him under. “I remember holding him, Mary. I remember how he felt in my arms, so small, so warm. I was afraid to even breathe too hard, as if he were something sacred—so tiny, so fragile.”

His voice drops lower. “But you—” His eyes search hers, desperate. “You were holding him first. You were exhausted, but God, you were beautiful, and you looked at me like—like I was the whole world.”

Her fingers tighten on his arms, her entire body frozen in disbelief.

Matthew swallows hard. “I remember everything, Mary. I remember what it felt like to love you completely, to wake up beside you. I remember your laughter, the way you said my name, the way you fit against me as if we were made for each other.” His voice wavers. “And I remember losing you.”

A tear slips down Mary’s cheek, but she doesn’t move. She can’t.

"I never married Lavinia," he continues, his voice thick with something close to grief. "She died. She caught the flu, and I—I couldn't save her. I couldn't love her the way I should have. I wasted so much time refusing to accept what was always true—my heart was never hers. It was always yours."

Mary’s breath hitches, her grip on him tightening.

“I still write to her and her father,” he says, exhaling shakily. “Because—God help me—I need to make sure she lives this time. If I can change anything, anything, I have to try.” He’s rambling now.

But then, his voice lowers, something breaking inside him. “I don’t know how,” he breathes, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know why I remember it. But I do. I remember our son.” His voice cracks. “And I remember how much I loved him.”

His eyes meet hers, and for a moment, it is unbearable.

“And I remember how much I loved you.”

Mary cannot speak, cannot move. The world tilts beneath her, and the only thing keeping her upright is Matthew’s hands, still holding her like she is the most precious thing in the world.