Sara sat in her darkening living room and thought of her little boy; she could still feel Charlie's hand in hers. Her little boy dead these past two years, dead yet seeming alive and calling her 'Sara O'Neill'. Who was he? What was he?

She saw her husband, too. He came by this morning, all quite and shy. So unlike himself, so unsure of himself, not the military man she shared ten years with. This was a man who needed their boy and didn't seem to understand the boy's death, who mourned anew, brokenhearted at the loss of his only son.

Sara wondered if she still loved him, seeing a new side of the man. But he dissolved into sparks of electrical current and appeared to be dying, in the very same place Charlie had died.

Then there was the real Jack O'Neill. He enfolded her in his arms but rushed off to solve the mystery with no explanation. It was the same old secrets, next would be the same old obfuscation, the same old bullshit.

She felt so confused to see her son who was not her son, to make a connection with her husband who was not her Jack. And finally to have her Jack leave wrapped in mysteries that she would have no part in.

She still felt for this man, still loved him but this life, apart more than they were together, so much he could not, would not share, was more than she could bear. No, not again, not after she had just about gotten her feet back under her. She could feel some thing within her begin to die. She didn't want that kind of life again and that was who he was. So that was her choice – to let go, to step back. He made his choice, now she had to protect herself. She had to let him and this former life, this dream she realized she still clung to, to let it all go.

But she could still feel the boy's soft warm fingers in her empty hand.