A/N: I know, I know. It's been quite a while since I've written something. However, I took ten minutes out of my time to write this… drabble I guess would be the best word for it. However, I digress. This is actually after what I do every New Year's, but put in such a format that it can either be Winry or Riza. Thus, it could be a little Ed/Winry for all you fans, Al/Winry if you choose to see it that way, or it could be some Roy/Riza and it all depends on how you read it. Happy new year, everyone!

Every year, she cries at midnight on New Year's Eve. She knows that it was just another year of failure, another year of waiting for something –for someone- that would never come, that would most likely never reach their goal, but continuing to try, making her wait longer. She knows that another set of scars, and another endless agony of emptiness lay before her in the coming year as she continued to wait, to appear when needed, and then to fade back into the background as the one most important to her puts his life on the line for the sake of that same goal that she waits tiredly for the completion of. Every year, she weeps over lost friends; friends who will die, friends who are dying and friends who have died, or perhaps friends whom she knows will leave her or she will leave behind in the foreseeable future.

Every year, she reminisces about what she had done, while the tears run down her cheeks and as she clutches her precious metal object to her chest, scratching the top of her dog's head with her other hand and gazing out the window at the snow. She thinks of her own personal failures –failures which led to that important person of hers to get hurt-, how she has aged another year without gaining much of anything. Perhaps, an extra line or two on her face from the constant worry, but not gaining anything of significant value.

Every year, she swears to stay loyal, to wait as long as it takes for that one whom she loves to reach his goal, to repent for what had passed in years gone by and to finally come away happy, satisfied with all the work, all the effort which it had taken to reach it. She vows to do whatever is in her power to make that goal more attainable, to make life more livable and to make sure that her loved one was prepared for what was to come.

Every year, after all the tears, she wipes her eyes and picks up a picture taken years before of the two of them when they were still young and naive, but happy in their ignorant bliss. And she smiles fondly at it; at the looks of happiness on their faces, and tries desperately to catch those fleeting whispers of the happy memories that threaten to fade away. For what is her hope made of, but a creased photo and fading memories.