The leaves of the old book were delicate in your hands. You handled them gently, and the ridiculous thought occurred to you that your should be wearing gloves. You've seen them in museums, the broad, calloused hands of the tour guide somehow softened by thin silk as he paged through a book so old that he wasn't sure when it was made.

But this book wasn't nearly as old. It was your grandmother's, one of the few things your mother kept, and one of the few things you took as your own. It reminds you of your mother, the way the fragile pages slide under the pads of your fingers, like thin flesh that could be torn apart. But that wouldn't stop you, because this was your ritual. A warming glass of wine, and the soft light of the lamp next to you, and the book that was once your mother's in your hands. When you read it you would mumble to yourself, as if you could remember your mother's voice weaving through the words on the page.

“I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;”

It's a memory, and like all memories of that world it appears suddenly in your mind, like a flash a light in the darkness. You barely remember it now, so you grasp to the single thread you can, anything to remind you of what you left behind. It's so important you get back, why can't you remember that?

There's excitement in the air around you, but it is not yours. 1981 is fading into the past, as the next year claims the present. The clock next to you ticks, and as you watch the numbers speed by you wonder why you are still here. You wonder what you did wrong. You wonder why you haven't earned the right to go back.

You wonder if it's because part of you knows there's still something left. You've missed something, haven't you, and you haven't the slightest idea what it is.

“Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.”

As if on cue, she started to cry. A glance at the clock showed it was only moments to midnight. It was the last night of 1996, before the clock turned and new year began. She was six months old, Molly, and you knew that she was far too old to cry out in the night by then. But she still did, and you know for whom she cried.

It wasn't you. No one cries for what they have. They cry only for what they have lost.

You tried to ignore her, and pushed yourself back into faded words on a darkened page. But her cries continued, turning into desperate sobs, but you didn't know what to do.

A firecracker broke through the night, the belated celebration of a new year. And she still cried, as if she knew no such thing as new beginnings. Of course she didn't. She was only a baby.

And you were only one woman, alone in the world on New Years Eve, with nothing but an old book and the wracking sobs of your only daughter to accompany you. And more than anything, you wanted it to stop.

You wanted all of it to stop.

“The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.”

When the sound of the firecracker breaks through the night, you hear only the sound of a gunshot, you feel only the vibration of cries, but you have no idea if they are yours or someone else.

It's then you realize you've dropped the wine glass in your hand, and it shatters heavily against the floor. There's ground glass in your carpet and your socks and your ears and in your heart. It burns with every movement and it's all you can do to stand still.

You know she is behind you. Like a ghost that haunts your very being, she is suddenly there, listening. A flash of blonde hair or a quick movement out of the corner of your eye is all the peace your mind will allow you, and you've learnt it's enough.

“You cried every night after your father left. For weeks, every night, you would wake up and cry. I thought you were too young to understand; I thought maybe it was me, being punished for having spoiled everything. I thought you were punishing me, and for a long time, I couldn't bear the idea of it.”

She doesn't respond, and there's no reason to think she is still listening. But you know. Because she's part of you, and you always know.

“I tried to ignore it, for a while. I thought if I ignored it, you would stop on your own. But you didn't. And it was New Years Eve, just like tonight... And I didn't know what else to do, so I went into your room. I had this book of my mother's, and I stroked your hair and read to you, and before long you were asleep again. Just you and me, Mols, New Years Eve and a book of poetry and it was then that I really got it. I understood you weren't crying to punish me. You just wanted me to be there. You wanted to know I was there.”

You want to turn and look at her. You want to run your fingers through her hair again, and you want to let her know you are still there, in any way you can be. But if you do, you know she will be gone. She with vanish like the echo of a firecracker, like the tinkling of broken glass, like the sound of your mother's voice.

But it's not her that needs you, not anymore. You need her. You know she only comes to you know when you need to be reminded that she is there. That she still believes in you.

That she hasn't forgotten you like you've almost forgotten her.

“I'm sorry, Molly,” you say quietly, but you know she doesn't need to forgive you for something that happened when she was far too young to remember. It was never really her that punished you, was it? She didn't need to, when you spent so much time punishing yourself. “I'm sorry it took me so long to understand.”

You close your eyes and grasp that single memory. The feel of fragile paper against your skin, the soft murmur of your voice as you read, the quiet sounds of your daughter's sobs as she faded into slumber.

When you finally turn, she's gone. The fireworks are over, and it's 1982 in London. You are Alex Drake, you are in a coma, and you are so very, very far away from home with nothing but silence to accompany you.

“And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.”


--------
Cut for length and minor spoilers for the second series.
--------

Muse: Alex Drake, Ashes to Ashes
Prompt: #313 - Write about something old, something new, or something borrowed.
Verse: Open and Canon Verses
Word Count: 1180
Note: This also involves a prompt given to me by pi_sparrow, who challenged me to write in the second person and include a line from a Robert Frost poem, fireworks, broken glass, and a baby. The poem used is "A Minor Bird" by Robert Frost.