It is based on the Arc Third Season containing the stories: Autumn

I slowly part the curtains and peer out of the window like a peeping tom. I can't help myself. I must know. Do you kiss her before you sleep, Michael? Do you gather her close and press your face to her hair? Do you talk about the child you share?

I don't know why I write this down. It is something I have to do, a way of dealing with these feelings that threaten to drown me.

In section they have a rule. Do not write things down. No diaries. Leave nothing of yourself behind. In section you do not exist. You do not have a heart to unburden.

I have been here a few days in this lovely home. And it is that, Michael. A home. I seehow comfortable you are here. I find myself smiling when you let down your guard. I never thought I would see you sip brandy before a fire.

I think they have sent me here because they want to hurt me, to destroy whatever I may have felt for you. It has not worked , Michael. I have seen you in a new light and my eyes are open.

I never knew you before now. I never knew who you were. What you knew. What you felt.

I have watched you before, Michael. With distrust. With longing. I never say beyond that cold, beautiful face.

I see you now and I am afraid of what I feel.

I didn't know that you played the cello. Those hands that seem so confident holding a gun are gentle on the neck of that lovely instrument. Your eyes close with each precious note. You touch the strings with your soul, Michael. I would listen all day given the chance. In your study, beside the worn leather cello case, there are books. Floor to ceiling the shelves are crammed. I found a dog-eared copy of a biography of Billy the Kid. I took it to my room, wondering why it would interest you. What do you find in this tattered paperback? Do you see yourself in him? This lonely hunted boy. Maybe he is as you once were after you met Rene. I wonder what you might have been if you had not met Rene.

I know you don't sleep well, Michael. You wake at three. I see the light go on in the study as I watch from the guest house. In the morning I found the tape you had been watching. The African Queen. I loved that movie, too. Have we ever talked about the movies we like? The little, mundane conversations that people who like each other have.

She showed me your wedding album today. The white silk dress, the champagne, feeding each other cake while the cameras clicked and the guests smiled. Somehow it is all very real to me. Not a Section game at all. I wish it were me in white silk eating cake from your fingers.

She showed me pictures of Adam as a baby. My favourite is one of you holding him a minute after he is born. There are tears of joy in your eyes. You are a father, Michael. What role did Section play in Adam's birth. Did they force you?

I see you hold him, Michael. Like you are afraid to let him go. I see the way you bury your face in the sweet, little boy smell of him. No matter what hand Section may have had in this, you are his father as much as you had chosen to be.

What was the story you read to him tonight? I have never heard of it before. About a little prince who came here from a distant star. You said that it was a French children's book you had loved as a little boy. You told him that you hoped you could finish the chapter before he fell asleep.

Or was it before you ran out of time? Oh, my sweet Michael. I watched as you carried your son to bed, his small sleep limp body cradled in those beautiful, musician's hands. Hands that have battled and killed but now hold such love. You kissed his forehead. A tear fell from your cheek and disappeared into the collar of his blue pyjamas. Your hand shook on the door handle.

No one has ever carried me off to bed with such tenderness. Kept me safe, loved me or read me stories of a little prince who fell from a star. I am glad that Adam has had you, Michael. He has had your love and that will be your greatest gift to him. He can keep that precious knowledge in his heart and it will keep him strong. He will be a good man. You must believe that.

Will you sacrifice your life for them, Michael? Something newly cynical in me knows that you will never beat section at their game. I am afraid for you. So utterly, selfishly afraid that I will lose you too.

I wish that things were different . . .

I start as I hear the sound of soft laughter. It floats down to me on a soft, autumn breeze like the leaves of the oak growing outside the guesthouse window. I breath deeply to settle the pounding of my heart and catch the scent of the season's decay. Winter is nearing and all must come to a close.

I wish I were her, Michael. As silly as it sounds, I do. I know she will lose you soon. But if for only a little while Elena has had what I never will. Michael, do you kiss her before you sleep?

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