1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   Florence Gilbert felt as if she had spent all day outside on a cold winter's day. Shivers ran up her spine with every few steps, caressing over her shoulders and spreading down her arms. Her fingertips became numb, as if she had pushed her hands onto a pile of snow and left it there for as much time as she could. The numbness spread down carefully, as if it were taking its time with her. Like Death. 

   She realised that it could have been Death taking its time with her. Maybe, he had taken pity on an early timing. But, was she worth the pity? Florence knew little about death, but she knew many others deserved the pity that she had received. The time she had received. 

   Florence inhaled deeply and stopped once she crossed the threshold to her bedroom. The scent of gardenias and jasmines was stronger than ever before, even when the flowers were half dried. The perfumes that rested right besides the vase were just as strong. And right besides them, the half-melted scented candles: vanilla, peach, red apple and honey, and balsam. Out of the four, her favourite was the last one. The strong scent of pine that surrounded her room and part of the hallway reminded her a lot of Christmas.

   She teared up as she recalled the last Christmas she had spent with her family.

   They had invited the whole family and their most closest friends for a party. Her mother, Miranda, and her began to prepare the grand meal. Two large herb-crusted prime ribs that she couldn't help but nibble on every time her mother asked her to rub some sauce on it; the special stuffing her paternal aunt bought every special moment; bacon and garlic mashed potatoes that she tried her best to make; yellowed rice with bits of vegetables; roles with a honeyed glaze; bacon stuffed mushrooms; and her mother's famous pecan pie that she did every holiday season. 

   The whole house was decorated with green, red, silver, and hints of gold. Garlands in every corner, bright lights and red and silver ornaments strung on them. They illuminated the whole downstairs, along with a tree. A large tree in the centre of the living room, lavishly decorated by her mother and John. Ornaments that each Gilbert had made when they were children hung with brand new red, silver, and gold ornaments. Beautifully wrapped gift laid underneath, one for each person to open after their grand dinner. 

   And Florence Gilbert, just sixteen, had thought about the many Christmas's she would spend in the house with just as many people, just as many decorations. Never, not once, did she imagine it would be her last.

   The thought carried itself carefully across her mind, to her eyes and her down her cheeks. Tears fell over her lips and down her chin, creating a dark mark on her sweater. 

   "I'm scared..." she said through trembling lips. It was as if she were naked on a cold night, snow dripping on her skin and creating colder spots. 

   Stefan grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I know." His voice was barely a whisper, a careful set of words that fell dead as soon as they left his mouth. "But, you can always..."

   "No," she cut in. She knew what he was about to say. He had only said it several hundred times, tried to smooth it as if it were just a careful thing and not a decision that would change her life eternally. "I don't want to be a vampire, Stefan. As tempting as living sounds, I don't want to be immortal."

   "I know," he repeated with a nod. He gave her a small smile as he lifted his hand and laid it on her cheek. A careful touch, his thumb wiping away the tears that decorated her cheeks. 

   Florence sniffed and tried to take careful breaths, but they all came in wrong. She tried to breathe in deeply, carefully, but they came in strange. Her lips trembled and her chest ached, as if it were caving in on itself. She pulled her hands away and ran a hand through her hair, moving away from him and towards the centre of the room. 

   She felt the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs. Her mind replayed the car crash, the tears and the blood and the pain. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. Her heart hammered against her chest like a rabbit running for its skin. The room spun.

   Florence fell to the floor and gripped the strands of the rug, inhaling. Or trying. Her ribs heaved as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate her lungs. 

   Stefan knelt in front of her. "Florence, you have to take deep breaths." He pushed a strand of hair away from her face. "There is nothing, nothing to be afraid of. You are all right."

   She knew better than that. Her death was imminent, just a reach away. When she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her, she would not be able to open them again. She would die. And although there was that one option, she didn't want it. Not one bit. Still, she was terrified. 

   Florence glanced up at Stefan and broke down. She let every thing she had held inside break free, from the very moment she woke yesterday in the car to right then. The tears spilled free, harshly—they didn't want to stop. 

   Although her breathing was calmer, the realisation that she would not see tomorrow's night made her ache. Her very being ached. Bones that will be smothered six feet underground, carefully laid in a wooden box that would rot as the years passed by. Her skin would fall apart and maggots would slither across her bones. 

   Maybe she had watched too many horror movies and being buried would be more peaceful.

   Maybe her mother would prefer to burn her body, keep her remnants in a ceramic urn on top of the fireplace. A picture right besides it. Her father's own urn to the other corner, his pictures besides it. 

   And her mother would live all alone in the big house. If John didn't decide to move back in for a while.

   No, Florence knew better than that. Grayson and Miranda would move in for as long as possible, to help. They would accept the many casseroles, thank every one for coming, nod whenever they commented something about how sad the passing was. And all through it, they would act as if they were okay.

   In silence of his bedroom, Grayson would break down.

   Florence knew her brother well enough to know that he didn't like to show emotion in public. Never in public. Even at his wedding he didn't cry when he saw Miranda in her dress for the first time. He did, but he covered it up and blamed the wind. And when Elena came into the world, handed to him like a little gift wrapped in a yellow blanket—he cried in her nursery. 

   She had seen him hold her tightly, right by his chest as he cooed careful words of love down to her. 

   And she would never get to see that baby grow. She wouldn't be the cool aunt that would give good advice, the one that she would call when she was drunk and wanted to be picked up.

   What if John had children as well?

   Cher and whomever she married. Bob. Charles. Those high school friends that she would no longer speak to once she graduated, and then they would send invitations to their wedding just to see how each of them were doing years afterwards. But she knew that one couple that would get married straight out of high school.

   Everything she would miss crashed right into one moment.

   Florence shook her head as she cried. "I'm terrified!" She let her hands grip her head, slightly tugging at her hair. 

   Stefan took a seat besides her, his shoulder pressed right against hers. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, his other hand right on top of the head. His fingers curled as he brushed her hair back, away from her face. "It's going to be all right," he whispered against her temple. "It's all going to be fine."

   "I don't want to die!"

   "It's all going to be fine," he repeated. His voice broke with each word. He swallowed hard and held her closer, almost pulling her to his lap. "You're going to be fine, Florence."

   It took her almost an hour to calm down. She sat on his lap, head on his shoulder and hands gripping his. Her heart was wild in her chest, and her extremities were cold. She sniffled and gripped his hand tighter as hers shook.

   "Can I ask a favour from you?"

   "Anything."

   "Can you take care of Mom?" Her voice was barely a whisper, and it still broke as she spoke. "Compel her to feel better, or something that won't bring her that much pain." She sniffed and looked down at their hands, her thumb rubbing on his palm. "Compel her to forget about me."

   Stefan's arm tightened around her, pulling him closer to her. "I will promise to do everything, except that." He pulled her away a bit and smiled, forcing every bit of pain down his throat. "You want to know something, Flo? The world deserves to know that you existed, that you lived and brought so much happiness to others..." He trailed off as he stared into her eyes, the smile disappearing from his lips.

   They were big and brown, like the cinnamon his mother used to sprinkle on his oatmeal every morning, or the fresh tree trunks in the spring. It reminded him a lot of summer, of the many times he ran around the fields with his brother. The laughter that consumed them, as if those small moments full of happiness would last for a lifetime. 

   "I'm not only going to be the only one that will remember you, Florence Gilbert," he whispered. He ran his hand from her had down to her cheek, fingers curling behind her ear. "I can't do that."

   Florence stared back at him with her mouth slightly open. The boy with summer in his eyes who made her own summer feel different than the seventeen others she had. The boy with summer in his eyes and mint on his lips. 

   She leaned in and carefully pressed her lips against his. Soft and gentle, a pair of lovers wanting to keep that reminder of each other. And then he kissed her harder, harsher. She let her other hand brush to the back of his head, fingers tangling on his hair. 

   Never had she been kissed like that. With desperation and harshness and every bit of emotion that was as harsh as the ones she felt inside her chest. And she wanted it to last. For as long as possible. More, and more, and more. Until, maybe, they would become a tangle of limbs on her bedroom floor. 

   Florence straddled him and laid her other hand on the back of his head, kissing him with every bit of passion that she had left. Her very being itched for him, wanted him. 

   Stefan's hands caressed her sides, fingers pressed deep into her skin. His hand moved to the bottom of her back, pressing beneath her shirt just to feel her skin. A reminder that she had been real, and she had wanted him just as much as he wanted her. 

   She pulled away. "I want you to go," she breathed against his lips.

   Stefan pulled away more, his back pressing against the bed. "What?"

   "I want you to go home, Stefan," she repeated. "I don't want you to be here when it...when this happens." She pressed the corner of her lip with her tongue as she searched for the words. They were strange words, left for when she would be old and withering on her deathbed. 

   But, there she was. Seventeen, and Death's fingers scraping at her back as if they were supposed to be gentle. 

   "I wrote letters for everyone," she said as she stood. She walked towards her dresser and grabbed the stack of envelopes she had  tied with an elastic band. She stared at her messy writing on the front, each with a name. The insides full of memories and words of love and comfort. She turned to Stefan and held them out, forcing a small smile on her lips. "After the funeral, if Mom decides to have one, give them this."

   Stefan stood and grabbed the stack. "When did you have time to write this?"

   "Between every memory we made." A genuine smile formed on her lips as she said those words. "Thank you, for giving me an amazing last day. I would have spent it crying on my bed if it weren't for you."

   Stefan licked his lips and looked down at the floor. "I thought I'd be able to change your mind," he honestly said. "You're too stubborn."

   She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "I already told you my reason."

   "I know," he nodded, "but you can't blame me for trying, Flo. You're not supposed to be... You should be living your life, as human as possible. You're supposed to be happy, have children, and grow old. Not this."

   "It's not your fault." She walked up to him and pressed her hand on his cheek, giving him a gentle smile. "None of this. I also don't blame Damon. Without him being a stupid prick and giving me his blood, I wouldn't be able to say goodbye. As much as he's an ass, he's also the one that pulled me out of the car." She leaned up on her toes and pecked his lips.

   Stefan pulled her closer and let their lips linger. A reminder of how her lips moulded perfectly with his.

   Florence pulled away and forced a big grin. "Go."

   "Flo..."

   She shook her head and pushed him by the arm, towards the door. "Please..." She swallowed hard and shook her head. "If you don't go know, I'll want you to stay here."

   "Would that be so bad?"

   She nodded. "I'd want to change my mind, and then I'd be miserable for the rest of eternity."

   Florence grabbed his hand and pulled him out her room, down her stairs, and towards the front door. She opened it carefully, afraid that the simple sound would wake her mother and John. And she moved with him towards the front porch, but stopped right at the first step and watched him take the last two.

   He stopped and turned, moved up the two steps and grabbed her. He kissed her hard and rough, a last kiss that would remind him that she had been real. She had existed. She had been in his arms, an she had wanted him, and she had given him a summer he wouldn't forget. 

   Stefan pulled away and breathed against her lips. "Parting is such sweet sorrow," he whispered, voice breaking. "That I shall say goodnight till it be morrow."

   "Thank you," she whispered back.

   And she stared at him as he walked away, towards his car. He sat there for a couple of minutes, staring at her through the window. She raised her hand as a gentle wave, and the car sped away. 

   Florence stood on the front porch for more moments. She watched the stars in the sky and listened to the birds sing their songs. They were gentle, a comfort as she stumbled back inside her house. She took in everything she could, as if she would remember all of it when she was gone. 

   The kitchen where she had spent so many days helping her mother. The living room where she had studied with friends and opened gifts on Christmas mornings with her family. Her father's study, which he kept in prime condition, and its scent of whiskey and old leather books. 

   The stairs and its hallways, the crooks and cracks that had memories of how they were made and created or when they were discovered. Memories that she would forget. Memories that her family would both love and hate. 

   Florence entered her bedroom and shut the door behind her. The scent of balsam hit her nostrils as she made everything neat. She picked up clothes from the floor, made her dresser as clean as possible, and pulled the stuffed bunny rabbit from the top of the bookshelf. She placed it on her dresser, and hoped that it would  be John to grab it. 

   The door to her bedroom open. 

   Florence turned and stared with wide eyes. "What are you..."