Page 48 of Evermore
Finn
Five Years Later…
F inn woke to the sound of waves against the shore and River's steady breathing beside him.
Five years had passed since his return from the temporal stream, five years of learning that love didn't require perfection—just the courage to keep showing up.
The lighthouse cottage had grown with them, expanded to include a proper restoration workshop where centuries-old books waited for his careful attention.
He lay still for a moment, watching River sleep in the early morning light.
The worry lines that had once etched themselves into River's face during sleep had softened, replaced by the peaceful expression of someone who'd learned to trust rather than control.
River's dark hair was longer now, touched with silver at the temples that Finn loved to trace with his fingertips during their quiet morning rituals.
The transformation of their home still amazed him sometimes.
Where medical equipment had once cluttered every surface, books now lined the walls in careful rows.
Where monitors had beeped with urgent data, plants grew toward windows that let in natural light instead of the harsh glare of research stations.
River stirred, his eyes opening slowly to meet Finn's gaze. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and warm with contentment.
“Morning,” Finn replied, leaning over to press a soft kiss to River's lips. The kiss tasted like home and possibility, like five years of choosing each other through good days and bad ones.
River slipped from bed to prepare coffee—a routine they'd perfected over years of learning each other's rhythms without trying to control them.
Finn listened to the familiar sounds of their morning ritual: the coffee grinder, the whistle of the kettle, River humming unconsciously as he moved through their kitchen.
Through the bedroom window, Finn could see bottles scattered across the beach from last night's storm.
Once, every piece of glass on their shore had held the potential for supernatural mystery.
Now they were simply part of the coastal ecosystem River studied and protected, beautiful debris from beautiful storms.
“Coffee's ready,” River called from the kitchen, and Finn could hear the smile in his voice.
Later that morning, Finn settled into his restoration studio, surrounded by centuries-old books and manuscripts that trusted him with their secrets.
His hands moved with steady confidence as he assessed a water-damaged ship's log from the 1800s, the pages yellow with age but still holding stories worth preserving.
His customer consultation notebook lay open beside him, filled with neat handwriting documenting projects and deadlines. No more mysterious gaps where hours or days had vanished from his memory. No more waking up to find work completed by hands he couldn't remember using.
The ship's log was particularly fascinating—the captain's entries growing increasingly erratic as what he described as “time sickness” affected his navigation. Finn recognized the symptoms immediately: temporal displacement episodes that the 19th century had no name for, no understanding of.
As he worked, Finn felt the familiar shift in his awareness that signaled an approaching episode. Five years ago, this moment would have filled him with dread. Now he simply set down his tools and let the displacement wash over him like a gentle tide.
The workshop faded around him as his consciousness drifted backward through the ship's history.
He saw the captain struggling with episodes that left him disoriented and fearful, saw the crew's growing concern as their leader battled something none of them understood.
But Finn also saw the moments of clarity, when the captain's unique relationship with time allowed him to navigate storms that would have destroyed other ships.
When Finn's awareness settled back into the present, he was smiling. The episode had lasted maybe ten minutes—River had learned not to worry unless they stretched past an hour—and had given him insights into the book's provenance that ordinary research couldn't provide.
He made careful notes about what he'd experienced, documentation that had become part of Dr. Voss's research into how TPD could be accommodated rather than cured.
His episodes were no longer medical emergencies but collaborative tools, windows into historical understanding that made him uniquely qualified for his work.
River
Hey, love. How are you?
Finn
I am good. Had an episode earlier.
River
How was the episode? The ship captain again?
Finn
Yeah. Poor bastard thought he was going insane. Wish I could tell him he was just extraordinary.
River
You kind of are, through your work. Every family you help understand TPD is a family that won't go through what we did.
Finn's chest filled with warmth at River's words. This was what love looked like after five years of practice—not desperate fear when episodes occurred, but quiet support and genuine appreciation for the gifts they brought.
Maya arrived for their weekly lunch, no longer anxious about her brother's condition but glowing with pride in her own evolution.
Her clinical psychology practice now specialized in family support for rare neurological conditions, helping other families navigate the journey from fear to acceptance that she and Finn had traveled together.
“I had a new family this week,” Maya said as she unpacked sandwiches from the local deli. “Dealing with temporal displacement in their daughter. I was able to give them your research, show them that their child isn't broken.”
Finn felt a complex mix of emotions—grief for the families facing the terror he remembered so well, but hope that they wouldn't have to navigate it alone the way he had.
But he also knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy for these families.
Some days were still hard for him and River.
Some mornings, Finn still stared at his reflection like he was trying to convince himself he was real.
Some nights, River still woke reaching for Finn's hand to make sure he was still there.
“It's not a magic fix,” Finn said carefully. “Understanding TPD helps, but families still struggle. Still have bad days. Still wonder if they're doing it right.”
Maya nodded, her expression growing more serious. “The Richardson family is going through that now. Their ten-year-old daughter has been having more frequent episodes since school started. They're scared and exhausted.”
“Are they coming to the support group?” Finn asked. He and River had started hosting monthly gatherings for TPD families, offering both practical advice and emotional support.
“Next week,” Maya confirmed. “I told them you'd share some of your coping strategies.”
Captain Torres joined them, having become a regular presence in their lives after learning to face his family's medical history with courage rather than avoidance. The grizzled sea captain looked more at peace than Finn had ever seen him, though grief still lived in the lines around his eyes.
“Your mother would be proud,” he said quietly, watching Finn work on the ship's log restoration. “She always said your mind worked differently, not wrongly.”
The words still hurt sometimes—the reminder of how much his mother would have loved to see him thriving instead of simply surviving. But the pain felt clean now, like grief that had been given space to breathe instead of festering in shame and secrecy.
That evening, River and Finn walked the beach at sunset, collecting bottles not for mysterious messages but for Finn's glass restoration hobby.
The simple pleasure of searching for sea glass together had replaced the supernatural terror of those early bottles, ordinary magic substituting for the extraordinary kind that had once defined their relationship.
River stopped at the tide pool where they'd first explored together, the place where Finn had begun to understand that his condition might be a gift rather than a curse.
From his pocket, River pulled out a simple ring made from sea glass that Finn had shaped during a peaceful displacement episode months earlier.
“I can't promise we'll have a normal life,” River said, his voice steady despite the emotion Finn could see in his eyes. “Hell, I can't even promise we'll have an easy life. But I can promise I'll show up for whatever kind of life we create together.”
Finn's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the ring—sea glass worn smooth by time and tide, shaped by his own hands during a moment when his consciousness had drifted peacefully through their shared history. It was perfect in its simplicity, beautiful in its acknowledgment of their journey.
“Yes,” Finn said, laughing through tears as River slipped the ring onto his finger. “Yes, of course, yes.”
They kissed as the sun painted the sky in shades of gold and rose, their lips warm and sure against each other. The kiss tasted like promises and possibility, like five years of learning to love without guarantees and whatever uncertain future stretched ahead.
As they embraced, Finn felt the familiar shift of an approaching episode. Instead of fear, he felt curiosity—what would his displaced consciousness show him at this moment of profound joy?
The episode was brief and gentle, a flash of images that made Finn smile rather than tremble: their wedding day beneath the lighthouse, quiet mornings decades in the future when their hair was silver and their hands wrinkled but still intertwined, and yes—some harder moments too.
Times when his episodes would frighten them both, when River's protectiveness would clash with Finn's need for independence, when they'd have to choose each other all over again through doubt and fear.
When he returned to present awareness, River was watching him with patient love, no anxiety or fear in his expression.