36. A Different Piece.

Ava wasted no time in going up to the front door, weak as she felt--she had to find those bottles. Who could have come so recently? The place had been abandoned for years. 
She realized Abe wasn't next to her anymore. He'd stopped at the edge of the lawn. "Come on," she urged, impatient to investigate. 

Abe shook his head. "I can't go in there," he said firmly. "It's dangerous for us non-time-moving folk. You go ahead," he added. "I'll wait here." 

Ava rolled her eyes. "It's not a timepiece," she said. "It's just a creepy old house at the end of a long road!" 

But Abe stood his ground. "It mightn't be a timepiece like the other one, but it is certainly something--something dangerous. For me, anyway." 

She threw up her hands in defeat. "Whatever!" she said. "We don't have time for this. I'll be right back."

35. The Ward.

The view outside the old woman's window was the best in the city. The tower sparkled at night, and the boats drifted cozily during the day. On fall mornings like this, the cool light was simply sublime.

Marie always enjoyed the chance to soak in the vista when she brought up the coffee and fruit. "Bonjour, madame," she said cheerfully, but did not receive a response from her ward. She rarely did. 

So she arranged the cappuccino, berries, and yogurt on the tray, then went to open the window and let in some fresh air. "Mademoiselle," the lady whispered fearfully, and Marie was at her side in an instant. "Mademoiselle, je suis très désolée, très désolée! C'est ma faute!" Her eyes welled with tears as she begged Marie's forgiveness for some imagined slight.

Marie stroked her hair as she always did during these fits. "No, Madam Coulise, you have nothing to be sorry for," she insisted. "Tout est bien! It is alright." Madam Coulise took a deep, shaky breath, and leaned into the arms of the kind nurse. 

But she repeated her apologies, in sporadic whispers, for the remainder of her meal.

34. Vanished.

Abe didn’t say anything for a long moment. “She just disappeared?” he asked finally. 

Ava sighed. This is why she hated talking about it. “We were on a trip together,” she said. “In Paris. It was raining. We got in a fight. I thought she would come back, but she never did.” 

He didn’t say anything for a while, not until they pulled up in front of the little grey house. It felt like years had passed since she’d last seen it. Maybe they had, depending on how you counted the time spent in the plane.

Abe’s face suddenly paled. “But--they’ve always been there,” he said dumbly. He stared forward and pointed towards the window. It took Ava a moment to realize what he meant, what could be so upsetting--but it was the bottles. The ones they’d come back to retrieve.

They were gone.

33. Still Recovering.

 "Why are you doing this, anyway?" he asked as he drove her across the field in his father's old beater. "Didn't your grandpa want it to end with him?" Abe hadn't been nearly as talkative as before, and the question jumped forth nervously after a stretch of uncomfortable silence.

Well, as much silence as a near-dead pickup rambling off-road could hope to achieve. "My sister," she finally replied. "She disappeared a couple years back. I always thought my grandpa was crazy, the stories he told about this thing -- and he kind of was, especially towards the end--" 

She winced as the truck jumped and jolted against the hard earth. Even if her recovery was speedy enough to astound her companions, she still felt weak. "But," she added, "I found a few kernels of truth. Enough to make me think...you know, just maybe. Someone as great as Allie will make you desperate to believe anything, I guess, if it means you might be able to get her back."

32. Still Broken.

A flicker still wasn't enough. She could feel it -- something had changed, but not completely. It was still broken. 

She considered Charlie and his son. They'd saved her life, after all. Abe perhaps out of goodwill, but not the old man. He wanted something; perhaps something he could only get with this watch. With her. "How many more are there?" she asked. "How many timeholes?"

He grinned--a crooked, narrow grin that burned away any remaining trust she might have held for him. "I like to call them time pieces," he said. "Little bits broken off, just floating around, like." 

She rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said again, "how many time pieces are left? How many of these things do I have to fix before my grandfather's watch finally works?" 

"Well," he returned, "how many bottles were on that old windowsill?"