1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   Her house was quiet with her mother still at the hospital, but the scent of her perfume still lingered in the halls. The scent was strong in her bathroom, right by the mirror. She lifted the bottle and took off the top, then inhaled deeply. The perfume was gifted to her on Mother's Day of 1978. Her brother had bought it, saying that the personification of the scent was their mother. It became her scent. Sophia Grojsman's White Linen, that smelled better when it dried under the sun, a cool elegance of white flowers and green notes. 

   "This is her perfume," she softly said, turning around showing it to Stefan. "Grayson and John bought it for her when I was two. According to them, I had liked it when they sprayed it at the shop, so they decided to get it for her." There was a faint smile on her lips as she set the bottle down. She took a deep breath and looked around the counter.

   Her mother's lipstick was a deep red that she applied lightly on normal days, then darkened when it came to formal events. She always wore the same shade, her signature colour.

   She walked out of the bathroom and towards the dresser in front of the bed, besides the television. There was a small mirrored bowl full of jewellery, from rings to bracelets. She picked up the diamond covered ring and smiled, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "And this is the ring I got her two years ago for her birthday with Dad's help. It cost a fortune and three years of allowance, but I wanted her to have something she had wanted."

   "Florence..." Stefan quietly mumbled behind her.

   She took a deep breath and turned around, pushing her hands to the pockets of her jeans. "I'm trying to remember her, Stefan." She tilted her head to the side and furrowed her brows. "Do you remember things when you decide not to go through with the transition?" 

   Stefan shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he answered. "As you can see, I did go through with the transition." There was a faint smile on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. The smile was forced, saddened. It was only there to appease her, not because he actually felt like smiling. "You know, you can change your mind if you..." He trailed off once he saw her face. 

   "I already decided," she said. She bit her lips together and looked around the hallway, avoiding him. "I don't want to go through with the transition because living forever sounds terrible!" She let a small laugh escape as she shook her head. The image of her father stayed in her mind, at first alive and then the bloodied face she had seen.  "I don't want to continue living if I have to see everyone I care about die."

   Stefan frowned, but nodded as he looked into her eyes. "I understand. I also feel the same, Flo. Trust me, I never imagined that I would be a vampire, or live this long. Or that I would meet you." And then he smiled. This time, it was full and wide. Honest. He took a step forward and laid his hands on the space between her neck and head, and laid a kiss on her forehead.

   Florence wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek against his chest. Out of all the coldness she felt throughout the day, he was by far the coldest. It was the type of cold that burned. Early February morning, where the cold was the harshest, and the wind blew the snow and the cold past every bit of clothes one wore. And one bundled up with everything they could find to keep warm. One large hat to cover the ears, two scarfs to cover the neck and the ears and the mouth, three types of jackets, two pants, two pairs of socks, and those heavy leather boots that would only stop the cold mildly. Yet, the cold passed. And then one walked through the doors of a warm room, and the feeling was magnificent. One took off every little bit of extra clothing, leaving only one pair of pants, the hooded sweatshirt, one pair of socks, and it felt okay. 

   Stefan was that type of cold. A comfortable cold.

   She looked up at him and gave him a smile. "Thank you," she softly said. "For everything."

   "You don't have to thank me."

   "I do." She pulled away and took a glance at the hallway. There were countless of pictures there, from family to friends. Portraits done at a photo studio of every year she had been alive, of herself, with her brothers, with her parents, and all of them together. Pictures taken by her mother hung on the walls like plaques, the handwriting behind them like engravings of their moments of joy. All of those pictures made her smile. "Because if I hadn't met you, I wouldn't be able to say my goodbyes."

   "Flo..." 

   The sound of her nickname coming from her mouth made her feel giddy, but at the same time it twisted her stomach. Her father had called her Flo, and so had her brother. It was a nickname given to her by everyone she loved. Everyone she would lose. 

   She wiped away the stray tears and forced a smile on her lips. "Can you help me make dinner?" she asked him. "I want to give Mom and John something to remember me by when I'm gone."

   And so he did. The pair worked around the kitchen with the radio set on an old jazz station. Florence had been a fan of jazz ever since she was a child, all thanks to Grayson and her father. Grayson enjoyed to listen to old records and whistle along to the tune. When she was a baby, he used to play them for her to fall asleep. As she grew, she danced on his shoes and he twirled her around. Her father, on the other hand, loved jazz. He even began to play the saxophone because of it, to the point where he had once thought of starting his own band. It failed. Florence thought that maybe that was the reason why her father detested the arts so much, because he had failed on them. 

   The kitchen began to smell of a concoction of herbs, butter, chicken, and steamed vegetables. It sounded of knives hitting the cutting board, chicken on a frying pan, boiling water, smooth jazz, and their laughter. Out of all, the laughter was the loudest. Stefan told her funny stories of his life, beginning at the beginning and ending before they met. His brother was in a large majority of them. And from the way he spoke about him, she could tell that they were good friends. Were. There was no idea of what happened in the present.

   The front door closed. Florence hurried and turned off the radio, then stood proudly in front of the kitchen table as she waited. Her mother and John walked in with solemn and tired looks. Especially her mother. She stopped and glanced at the table with furrowed brows. 

   "What is this, Florence?"

   "I wanted to..." Florence took a deep breath and glanced back at the table. "I wanted to cook, for comfort. We all need it tonight."

   "It looks great!" John said as he took a seat. He didn't wait, and immediately sunk his fork into the chicken and brought it to his mouth. "It tastes great, too! Did Stefan make it?"

   "I did," Florence said with a small and proud smile.

   "Stop!" Constance Gilbert yelled. "Stop! How can you two be smiling when your father just died? Grayson is still in the hospital and no one knows if he'll make if through the night!"

   Florence's smile died as she looked at her mother. "I know..."

   "Do you, Florence?" her mother hissed.

   "I do!" She stood tall, pushing away the weakness that ate at her. "I know because I was there, Mom!"

   Constance Gilbert ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm just..."

   "Tired," John finished for her. He pushed himself from the table and hugged her tightly. "We all are, Mom. We all lost Dad, and we're scared for Grayson, but there's nothing we can do right now except wait."

   The matriarch of the Gilbert family pushed herself away from her son, laid her purse on the counter, and gave them both a small smile. "I'm going to bed," she said as she gently squeezed Florence's chin. "I'll go to the hospital early to see how Grayson is doing, and then I'll have to..." Her smile disappeared as the words fell from her mouth. She didn't want to say them, didn't want her children to hear them. "I'll be gone early, so goodnight. If anything, don't hesitate to wake me up, okay?" She kissed her children's cheeks and went upstairs. 

   Florence watched her mother as her chest ached. A last goodnight, a last smile, a last kiss on the cheek. And those small actions reminded her of her life in the household, with her family. She had been loved, tremendously. And she had loved them in return, because they deserved that. From her parents, to her brothers, to her grandparents, and the rest of the extended family that visited during the holidays. They had loved her well, showed her care and happiness in the moments where it had been most cherished. She couldn't wish for another family.

   She inhaled deeply and took a seat at the table, in front of her brother. Her mind was full of her family, of what they would go through when she was gone. They were already a mess with their father gone, with her brother on the brink of death at the hospital. If she died, would they be the same? She knew that the only reason her mother acted okay was because she wanted to appear strong, as if this was only a phase in her life. It would soon be over. 

   "Really," John said, glancing over at her, "did Stefan make this? Because you can't cook this good."

  Florence threw the balled up napkin at him and stuck out her tongue. "Shut up and eat."

   "Stefan, did she honestly cook?"

   Stefan sat besides with her with his arms crossed, a laugh escaping his mouth as she shook his head in amusement. "She did," he said with a nod. "I only helped taking out the ingredients, mixing, and plating. The rest was her."

   "I told you!" She threw her hands in the air and let out an annoyed groan. "You think all I do is swim, listen to music, and hang out."

   "Because that's all you do!" John laughed. He leaned back against his chair and shook his head, a look of amusement covering his features.

   "Says the guy who spends the majority of his time in his bedroom doing god-knows-what!" she exclaimed. She raised a hand and showed him her palm. "And I don't even want to know what you do in there."

   John rolled his eyes. "Oh, please! I want to know what is it that you and Stefan do in your bedroom."

   "Nothing," Stefan answered with a chuckle. "We don't do whatever it is that you're thinking."

   John humphed and nodded, crossing his arms and leaning back against his chair. "You better. If I catch you two between the sheets, I will—"

   "Okay!" Florence covered her ears with her fingers and stared at the table. "That is enough! I am going to bed now and I'll see you..." The words hung in the air as if a knife had cut them through. Her eyes landed on her brother's amused face, how he appeared laughing at the moment. The last moment she would see him laughing, see him make fun of her. She forced the smile back to her lips and walked over to him. For once, she did something she hadn't done ever since she was a child. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "Thanks, John."

   He laid his hand on her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Okay, what is up with you?"

   "Nothing," she mumbled against his head. "Just thought I'd say how much I appreciate you, and thank you. For everything."

   John laughed and stood. He turned and wrapped his arms around her, laying a kiss on the top of her head. "You're my little sister, Flo. It's basically my job to look over you." He pulled away and gave her a smile. "Now, go to sleep. We need a goodnight's sleep so we can... So we can prepare everything tomorrow. Goodnight, Flo. Night, Stefan!" He waved a hand as he walked away from them, following the direction of their mother. 

   Florence took a deep breath and looked down at the half-empty plates. "You know, it's weird... I'm not hungry."

   "Because your body doesn't desire food," Stefan softly said as he grabbed the plates from the table and took them to the sink. "You want..."

   "Blood," she finished for him, making a disgusted face. "I get it." She began to dry the plates as he handed them to her, laying them on the cupboard. When she grabbed one of the forks, she grabbed the counter and shut her eyes. The small movement clouded her mind, as if she had stood up too fast, or like when she swam too much and her muscles were weak, and her eyesight became splotchy. Weakness. 

   "Flo?"

   She waved a hand and forced a smile. "I'm fine." She blinked several times, until the counter came at the right position and her breath felt calm. "I'm fine."

   "You're not," Stefan sighed. "It's starting..."