The year had been rough.

Walt was no stranger to hardships in life, but the amount of continuous pain he'd been suffering through for the better part of twenty-two months was something new. Constant night terrors, visions, and schoolwork were catching up to him.

And then, on November 22, 2007, Locke showed up.

Walt had walked out of school, talking to his 'friends,' when he'd seen Locke out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks, distractedly waved a hand at the group. John looked almost the same as he had three years ago — although the scar on his eye had faded considerably, the way he held himself was just as confident. He didn't question why Locke was in a wheelchair or why the strange black man was standing on his shoulder. All he knew was that Locke was here.

Walt was excited.

He wasn't sure why Locke was back in the real world, or where everyone else was, or if the people still on the Island were even alive, but Walt knew he wanted answers. Needed answers. Locke always seemed to have had them so long ago, and Walt was sure he would now.

Some new emotion clawed up Walt's throat when Locke raised a hand, waving over the street. He crossed over the pavement towards his old friends, face drawn into something like curiosity. Confusion. Wonder. Walt clutched his backpack tightly, observed the cast over Locke's leg, then looked back up. Extended an arm and shook his hand. "Hey, John," he said, a smile warming his cheeks.

Locke grinned. "Hi, Walt." He laughed softly.

Walt glanced back down at his leg and observed the wheelchair. "What happened?"

"I hurt my leg," John said simply. A pause. "You don't seem surprised to see me."

That familiar sensation of excitement tingled through his chest. "I've been having dreams about you." Walt made sure his voice stayed even. It was true. He'd been having visions about Locke's return, in a similar fashion to this. Except now, it was real. John tilted his head, giving him time to continue. "You were on the Island, wearing a suit, and there were people all around you. They wanted to hurt you, John."

Locke raised his brows, offering no definitive answer. "Good thing they're just dreams."

Walt opened and shut his mouth, deciding it was better not to explain how, sometimes, his visions came true. And then there was a sudden urge inside to know what John knew, to figure out just how much he knew. "Is my dad..." Walt tried to find the right words. "Is he back on the Island?" Perhaps there was also some child-like hope that his father was still alive, that the freighter nightmare hadn't been anything but a nightmare. Maybe Michael was alive. "I haven't talked to him in..." He shrugged. "Three years. I figured he must've gone back."

John tilted his head upwards, brows furrowing slightly. He looked like he was thinking, hesitating, links between words becoming slow and disoriented. "Um, last I heard, your dad was on a freighter near the Island."

Walt stared at him, almost unable to comprehend the words. It was true. Michael had been on the freighter, and now he was dead. He nodded slowly, taking a shaky step back. "So why'd you come to see me?"

John smiled and stared at Walt, looking him over with a soft gaze. In some ways, this man felt like more of a parent than Michael ever had been. When a beat of silence spread between them, the only thing Walt wanted to ask was, What? "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

He grinned slightly, nodding. "Yeah. I'm doing pretty good." A pause. Locke said nothing more. "Well... I gotta go." He looked over at where the bus was rumbling down the street. "It was good seeing you, John."

"Yeah." Locke clasped his hands over Walt's, smile flickering. "Take care."

Walt opened his mouth, almost daring to ask about the Island, about why Locke was back, about the Oceanic Six and his grandmother and so much more— but his legs were suddenly carrying him away from John, across the street and to the bus stop, and everything in Walt's mind screamed, Go back! Ask him! Talk to him! Go with him!

Tears welled in his eyes, so sudden and unexpected that Walt was nearly blown back from the shock. He looked through the haze of people but Locke was gone, as was the black car, and he was alone again, with absolutely no one to speak to or talk to ever again. Walt's lip trembled and he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, trying to control himself. Despite the sadness and grief and regret pulsing through his chest, Walt forced himself onto the bus, took his seat, and looked out of the window.

And he began crying. Nothing heavy, no sobbing or hysterical hiccuping, just.... weeping. Soft. Quiet. He shivered and curled his jacket closer to his body, wishing he was back on the Island, wishing that things could go back to the way they were before, wishing that he could amble through the plane wreckage and argue with his father and talk to Hurley and Shannon and Sayid and Jack and—

It was never going to happen, though. Those days were long over. Walt was living in the real world now, and unfortunately had to deal with the very real fact that things would never be the same. He would never return to the Island. He would never be Walt Lloyd again — just a fraction of himself, of the boy he'd once been. He was fourteen, growing hopeless, starting to come to the harsh conclusion that he would never be something special, not like he had in John's eyes. He was absolutely, positively useless.

With the sadness came the anger, and with the anger came the rage. He was so angry. So angry at his father, at the Oceanic Six, at everything that had happened in his life so far. His chest twisted and he clutched his hand over his face, trying to control his labored breathing. Stop crying. Stop. But he couldn't. His body ached from the pain, though it wasn't anything physical.

When he returned home, Grandma was already there. Walt willed himself to walk past her, to hide his face and pretend like everything was fine, but... it wasn't.

Walt needed to talk to one of the Oceanic Six. He needed someone to talk to. He needed a friend, someone who would listen to him and wouldn't doubt his words or experience. Someone like John. So, Walt sidestepped into the living room, dropping his backpack on the floor and sliding into the couch next to Grandma. She smiled and turned her head to look at him, but it immediately dropped into concern. "Honey? What's wrong?"

He didn't return her gaze. Walt stared at the television screen, trying to figure out what to say. "I..." He shook his head slowly, beginning to tremble. "I've lied. Grandma. A lot."

She said nothing.

The silence prompted him to continue. "And I know I have. But- but I need you to trust me for a minute. I need to see-" His breath hitched. "I need to see one of the Oceanic Six."

Grandma furrowed her brows in confusion. She let her hand slide over Walt's leg. "What do you mean? Why would you need to see one of them?"

He ripped himself out of her grasp, anger beginning to lap in his chest. He could feel the fire rising, rising, rising. "I know them. And I need to speak to one. I- I don't know how I will, but if they know it's me, then they'll let me see them-"

"Baby! Slow down." Grandma shook her head incredulously. "You aren't making sense. You don't know the Oceanic Six."

"I do," he stressed, screwing his eyes shut. Walt sighed, trying to calm himself down. "Look.... I'll explain everything. I swear. Okay? Just- just let me see one of them. Please. I need to do this."

There was a long thread of uncomfortable silence. Walt prickled and shifted in the seat of the couch, eyes flickering to the TV. Grandma opened and closed her mouth several times, clearly unsure of what to say or do. "Walt..." She followed his gaze to the screen. "If you're sure. But I don't know where any of them are, or if they'll even remember you."

"They'll remember me," he assured. Walt stared at the news. It talked about the car chase in 2006. A picture of Hurley flashed on the screen. He swallowed thickly, fingers curling. "And I know where we can go first."

* * * *

November 24, 2007
Los Angeles, California

Walt slowly opened the door, staggering out into the dying sunlight. He closed his eyes and began to sob, fingers curling into his shoulders. He walked a few feet before stopping and sat on one of the benches. His gaze trailed to the sign: Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute.

An overwhelming sadness came upon him. Walt shook with grief and desperately tried to understand why lying would protect everyone else on the Island. Was his father still alive? No. No, he was dead. But Hurley said there were others. They had to do something to help. They'd been stuck there? For three years? Doing what? Maybe they'd already died.

"Baby?" A soft voice jerked Walt out of his thoughts and he lifted his head, blinking clouded eyes at his grandmother. She frowned and sat beside him, frowning deeply. "Baby.... you have to tell me what's going on. Why did you speak to that crazy man?"

"He's n-not crazy, Grandma." Walt looked away.

"He's in a psych ward, Walt. And he was the one involved in that police chase last year. I remember it." She clicked her tongue. "I don't know how you were able to talk to him, or why he let you see him, or how you even know that man, but I really would like to know."

Walt's tongue flicked out of his mouth. Wet his lips. Was this it? Was Grandma going to be the first one he told about the Island? But would telling her result in the deaths of the rest of the people back on the Island? He shook his head and dropped his shoulders, wiping away the tears. "I don't know how to explain, Grandma," he whispered.

"Just try," she urged quietly. A beat of silence spread between them. "I won't judge you. If something happened, you can tell me."

Walt inhaled raggedly, breath wrenching from his throat. He began to tremble, eyes watering once more. He hadn't talked about the Island to anyone alive since.... well, since Locke. Before that? His father. But his father was dead, and Locke was somewhere, doing whatever it was he did. But he had to try to explain. If he didn't, Walt was afraid the weight of the secret would eat him away on the inside. "I..." He hesitated. "It's hard to talk about. But- but when me and my dad came back, we lied. Kind of."

"Lied? About what?" She seemed to come to a realization. "Wait. The plane crash...? In Asia?"

"Yeah." Walt laughed, but it turned into a strangled cry. "Yeah, that."

Grandma sighed. "Well?" she prompted. "If it wasn't a plane crash, then what was it? I always did think that was a load of-"

"It was a plane crash," he said quickly. "But- but just not there, not in Asia, we-" Walt desperately balled his hands into fists, beginning to sob. "Please, I don't... I don't know how to explain.."

"Baby. Hey. Shhh." Grandma wrapped an arm around Walt's back and pulled him into her embrace. "Just talk. I'll listen and I won't say anything. Would that be better?"

He nodded, controlling his breathing. It's fine. Just.... just talk. That can't be hard. And so he did. "W- well, after my mom died, Brian didn't want me anymore, so my dad came to get me from Australia. We got on a plane, b- but it crashed on this island, and we had to survive." Walt didn't look at Grandma, didn't dare try to find some kind of reaction. He just wanted to vent. "A- and it was good, at first. It was. I had Vincent, our dog, and my dad and things were nice and- and then I met Locke, but things started happening. Like, there were polar bears and a monster and these other people lived on the Island, and they kidnapped me after we got on a raft to leave, so my dad..." He trailed off. Some things were better left unsaid. "We got out on a boat. We landed on another island, and sold the boat and made it back to New York and then came and found you." By the time he was done, Walt couldn't breathe.

Quiet. There was a moment of nothing but the sound of the wind and an aimless shout from inside the building. Then, Grandma leaned forward and kissed Walt's forehead. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. He looked at her and she was crying. "I had no idea. I... I don't understand everything, but I- I get it now. You were on that Oceanic flight. But didn't they find it in the bottom of the ocean? Did you know the Oceanic Six?"

Walt shrugged. He didn't know anything about a plane at the bottom of the ocean. "I knew them," he instead answered, melting into his grandmother's embrace. "Jack was like our leader. Kate was attached to his hip. I hung around Hurley sometimes — he was funny. I didn't talk to Sayid much, but he was cool. Sun babysat me when my dad had to go on hunting trips, and Aaron..." He frowned.

"Kate really had that baby on the island?" Grandma asked.

He shook his head. "No, everyone lied. There's still people on the Island, people that didn't make it back. Aaron was Claire's baby, but... I don't know where Claire is." Walt hadn't seen her show up yet. Maybe she was still alive, but that wasn't likely.

"Why did they lie?"

Walt laughed, but it wasn't bitter or angry like before. He was calm. Controlled. Understanding, almost. "To protect the people left behind. Sawyer, Jin, Charlie, Claire..." He began to cry once more. "I wish I'd never left. I loved it there."

Grandma paused before speaking. "But you can have a good life here. The Oceanic Six did it, right?"

Walt looked over at the Santa Rosa doors. "I don't know about a good life, but..." He laughed and so did his grandmother. "It was a life I liked, living there. And Locke..." His heart twisted painfully in his chest. He hadn't forgotten about the obituary he'd seen in the paper — Jeremy Bentham, dead from suicide — but really didn't want to think about it anymore. There was no way Locke was dead. Right..?

Grandma didn't ask about Locke. She stood up and gripped Walt's hand. "Come on. Let's go home."

Home. Walt stood up and took his grandmother's arm, turning to look over the horizon. The sun was dipping below the skyline, dapples of orange and yellow sparkling over the pale blue sky. Walt wondered what the sunset looked like from the Island. But he would never return there, would he? New York City was his home now. Grandma was his home.

The only home he'd ever wanted was gone, and just like the dusk, he had to set his dreams behind and move on with his real life. Walt looked at Santa Rosa, thought about Hurley. Goodbye, old friend. Then, he turned and followed his grandmother, and all thoughts of home were filled with images of New York City.

* * * *

March 12, 2008

"Grandma?" Walt opened the front door to the house and closed it softly behind him. He looked around the house. Silence. Something worked tightly in his gut. "Grandma?" he tried again. No answer. Her car was here, though. Maybe she was asleep?

Surely.

Moving from the hallway into the kitchen, Walt spotted a shape slumped on the couch. He paused, considered, then stepped forward, smiling. "Hey, Grandma."

No answer.

Walt crossed to her side, dropping his backpack and laying a hand on her shoulder. "Grandma?" Her head was leaned back, eyes half-open. Bile rose in his throat. "Grandma." He shook her roughly. No response. Walt slapped her face. Nothing. He set his fingers on her skin and she was so, so cold, like she'd been submerged in an icy bath. His vision clouded with tears. "Grandma. N- no. No, no, no, no..." He sobbed softly, trying desperately to wake her.

Walt knew she was dead.

He flopped down next to her and wrapped his arms around her, but dead weight pulled her away. Walt instead nuzzled his head into the crook in her neck and cried, somehow not disgusted at the idea of cuddling with a dead person. Whirlwinds of thoughts plagued his mind. Why did everyone around him die? Was it something to do with him? What about when the police found her body? Did he even call the police? What about his fake identity? Would they be able to tell it was falsified?

Everything became too heavy. Walt began to scream, wildly thrashing. "No! No! Fuck!" Tears glistened across his cheeks and he yelled for Grandma to return, to not leave him, to come back and stop joking. But she wasn't joking. She was gone. Walt could feel it. Maybe I could've helped her had I come home earlier. But her skin was like ice. It must've happened after Walt left for school, and she wasn't in her work clothes.

Pain gripped his heart so tightly he was afraid he wouldn't be able to recover. Walt broke away from his grandmother and screamed again. It rubbed his throat raw. He suddenly couldn't breathe, and Walt began to gasp in tightly, an anxiety attack submerging him into dark waters. Walt nearly fell to the ground, grasping at his chest, sliding away from Grandma. He looked around, hoping she'd appear in ghost form, but no such thing happened.

It's because I told her about the Island. He pushed himself to the wall and cried into his palms, sliding to the ground. Walt's legs splayed out beneath him and he sobbed. The Island had done this. He'd done this.

He should've never visited Hurley. He should've never talked to Locke, back when he'd returned last year. It was stupid, and his recklessness had gotten his grandmother killed. Walt had heard about another flight — Ajira — crashing somewhere, and a leaked passenger list had showed that the Oceanic Six were on it. He wondered if they'd returned, and why they'd gone without him. Walt wondered if they'd done something to the Island to hurt his grandmother, or if any of them had returned, or if they were all dead. He didn't know. He almost didn't want to know.

All Walt knew was that his grandmother was dead, and that it was very likely his fault. The anxiety attack was still present, growing ever-more dangerous, but Walt made sure to breathe. His hysterics had only risen and he wanted nothing more than to die, to be out of this house, to be out of New York. Walt had given up on the Island after his visit to Hurley in Santa Rosa, but...

No. That thought was stupid. He'd never return. His life was in shambles. All of his family was dead. Locke was dead.

Walt was alone.

He sat there for another half hour, staring at his grandmother, fingers twitching to life every few moments. It was like his own body was checking to make sure he was alive, but Walt hardly felt like it. His throat closed up and he gripped the wall, steering himself to his feet. Walt staggered over to Grandma and looked down at her, eyes watering. "Bye, Grandma," he whispered, hoping that, wherever she was, she could hear. Walt stepped away from her and aimlessly wandered out the door.

His trek began.

Walt wasn't sure where he was going. No where, really. His feet led him down sidewalks, streets bustling with people. It bothered him. No one acknowledged him, or understood his pain, or sympathized with the trauma he'd endured throughout his life. No one knew anything. He was nobody in the world — just Walt Lloyd. Someone who had presumably died long ago.

He'd died on the Island. That's what it felt like, sometimes. Like he'd left a vital piece of his soul back there. And I'm never going back. He was fifteen and hopelessly alone. Walt couldn't continue dwelling on the past like a child. If he wanted to be a man, he needed to move on. To forget about the Island. Act like it never existed.

But it did exist. Somehow, the Oceanic Six had returned. If they could, surely Walt would be able to? Wishful thinking. He made his way through Times Square, looking up at the flashing lights and the ads and the people and the hustlers and the crazies. Maybe he was crazy.

The sun had dipped below the skyline, spreading dull colors across the sky. Walt looked up and thought of his grandmother. Thought of how, once upon a time, five years ago, he would've looked at this sunset and thought, I wish I could see this on the Island. But Walt didn't think that. He just wanted Grandma back. He wanted someone.

With the night brought terrors that others would flee from — maybe smart people, tourists who were afraid of being robbed — but Walt hardly cared. He enjoyed the breeze sifting through the buildings, the soft lights that pooled across apartments and workplaces. It was so beautiful he started to cry. A homeless man nearby noticed and silently offered a cigarette. Walt looked at him, looked at the cigarette, then took it between his fingers. He amused the idea of throwing it away, but thought, fuck it. If I'm going to die tonight, maybe I should go all out.

So, thinking of the movies he'd seen, Walt pressed the cigarette to his lips and breathed in. He paused then blew out, coughing softly. It didn't do much, but smoking was better than nothing, so Walt decided to continue. He strayed into the messier parts of New York, unsure of where exactly he was. Walt suddenly found that he didn't care about anything. Part of him wanted to die, but the other didn't. What did he choose? How could he choose?

Suddenly, Walt really craved a Snickers.

He found a convenience store pretty quickly. He had a few wrinkled dollar bills in his pocket, so decided to pay for the candy and... well. Next was questionable, but Walt at least had the plan to die. It was now or never. That being said, he paced the aisles, picking up a Snickers and inspecting it. 'REBECCA' the name said. He definitely wasn't Rebecca. Turning on his heel, Walt slid the candy to the cashier. "Just this."

The cashier eyed him. Blankets of darkness had layered the earth outside. Only street lights and the headlights of taxis illuminated the area. "Aren't you a little young to be walking alone at night?"

Walt read his name tag. 'Brandon.'

"Well, Brandon," he sighed. It felt like his heart had shriveled up and died, leaving him with absolutely nothing inside. No emotion, no care, no sympathy. He was a black void. "I am fifteen."

"You're a baby!" Brandon smiled and yellow teeth flashed back. His hair was brown and unkept. "Wait 'till you're forty, then you'll really wish you were fifteen again."

Walt wasn't in the mood for talking, but it seemed his mouth was running anyway. "I'm leaving for a while. Not sure if I'll make it to forty."

The cashier raised a brow. "You runnin' away or somethin'? I'm sure your momma's worried about you."

"My mom's dead."

"Oh. Your dad?"

"Dead."

A pause. "Grandparents?"

Walt froze, fingers curling. He gulped, shaking. "Dead." His voice came out wobbly and disassociated. "Just found her a- at home. She's gone."

There was silence. Walt tilted his head and observed Brandon's wide-eyed, shocked stare. "J- Jesus, kid," he stuttered. He slowly scanned the Snickers bar but didn't hand it back. "Who are you staying with, then?"

Walt shrugged. "No one."

"So... you're just out here? All alone?"

"Yeah." He kept his voice even, trying not to show his grief. His fear.

"Man... you don't... you have nowhere to go?" Brandon looked at him like he was an alien.

"No." Walt's voice lowered and he stared at the Snickers. He shoved three dollars over. "Keep the change."

Brandon hesitated but eventually handed over the candy bar, face twisting slightly. He looked unsure of what to do. "Kid-" Walt stopped before he could turn around to walk out, blinking up at the man. "I can't just let you leave. Maybe you could stay with me and my wife for the night. I- I wouldn't mind. Then we can find you somewhere more permanent to stay."

Walt wondered if this man was a pervert. He didn't seem like it, and he didn't get any sort of pedophile 'vibe', but he could never be too sure. Still.... he frowned, genuinely afraid that he wouldn't go through with his plan before the end of the night. "I- I don't know. I think I'm just gonna go."

"Go where?" Brandon stressed. "Back home? I can drive you there after my shift ends."

"A bridge." Walt nearly slapped himself for being so honest, but it was true. Maybe a part of him wanted to be saved, to finally be cared for and understood by another person. His grandmother could no longer do that.

"Jesus!" Brandon's hands began to shake. "Kid- I- I can't- there's no way I can let you leave after you tell me that. You can't do that to yourself!"

"Says who?" Walt exploded. Something clouded his gaze and he realized it was built up tears. "I have no family. No friends. I might as well be dead!"

"Don't say that!" Brandon exclaimed. "Please. Please let me take you back to our apartment. I need to make sure that you're okay, that you don't do anything to yourself."

Walt's heart crumpled. The anger flared away and was replaced by something worse. "Wh-" His voice wavered. "Why do you care?" A complete stranger was more worried for him than anyone else in Walt's life ever had been. He genuinely had no idea how that worked.

"Because I was like you, once." Brandon shook his head. "I had nothing to live for, I thought. So I asked a guy for drugs- to-" He hesitated. "To overdose, but he talked me down from it. A complete stranger. It changed my world. I got a job, found new opportunities. New York is full of them, kid. You meet hundreds of people. If I somehow got a wife..." He laughed. "Then you sure as hell can beat what's going on now."

The cashier.'a words changed something inside of Walt. Still, he couldn't let it show that he was buying into any of it. It was all a distraction. "Opportunities, huh?" Walt looked around the convenience store and scoffed. "Says you, who works here."

Brandon smiled. "I own the store. It's in a great place, really. Attracts a lot of people, especially during nighttime. That's when I'm always on shift."

Walt deflated. He stared at the man. Why are you so nice? Why can't you just tell me to piss off so I can kill myself already? He rubbed his face with his hand, closing his eyes. "Look," he said slowly. "If I... if I come with you, then let me fly to LA. Tomorrow."

Brandon frowned slightly but nodded anyway. "Okay. I can do that. Do you have family there? Friends?"

Didn't I just tell you I have none of those things? Walt decided to humor him either way. "Yeah. His name's Santa Rosa."

The cashier hummed in thought. He clearly didn't understand, but that was okay. Walt hadn't expected him to. "Well...." He looked at the clock. "We can leave now. Just- at least tell me your name?"

Walt hesitated. He thought of his father, his mother, his grandmother, Brian...

"Keith Johnson," he whispered. "My name is Keith Johnson."

* * * *

April 18, 2010
Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute
LA, California

Walt had a visitor. That was new, considering he'd been going under a new name for the past two years. Life had been rough. After meeting Brandon so long ago, Walt had convinced he and his wife to send him on a plane to LA with some money. Once there, he tried out some jobs, but eventually landed in Santa Rosa.

It really wasn't all that bad. Some people were weird, others shy, others aggressive, but Walt had nothing to worry about here. The money his father had earned on the freighter a few years back was keeping him inside. Thankfully.

Two years inside brought all kinds of things to life, though. With his new alias, Walt finally admitted to one of the therapists his visions, his thoughts, the things he'd once seen on a day-to-day basis. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Took Clozapine now, which greatly reduced his suicidal thoughts. Didn't do much for the dead people, though. Walt still said he was better.

And now he had a visitor. The last thing he'd expected was for it to be Henry Gale. That had seemed so long ago.... five and a half years and counting. Walt never stopped thinking about the Island in here, and some child-like aspect of him returned. Was he going back? Why was Henry Gale here? What had happened to everyone else after the Ajira airplane crashed?

Their conversation hadn't been entirely modest or passive, but Walt found out that Henry Gale's name was actually Ben Linus, and that he and someone else needed Walt's help. Help on the Island. Just hearing those words fall from someone else's tongue sent sparks of excitement through Walt's chest. He could hardly contain his laughter, but made sure to suppress his laughs in the small of his throat.

Yes. He would go. And Walt would soon find out that Hurley needed his help, and that he was even working with Ben (long story, apparently). Walt would also come to find out that his father, despite being confirmed dead from the freighter, could still be helped. He was on the Island, somehow, and Walt could help his father.

And as the blue Volkswagen van peeled away from Santa Rosa, Walt looked back on the institute and thought about his life. Mother dead when he was just ten years old. Father dead at eleven. Grandmother dead at fifteen. Now Walt was seventeen years old, almost an adult, and the last six years of his life he'd spent waiting, wondering, considering. He'd been angry. He'd been grief-stricken. He'd been abandoned, forgotten, and shoved to the ground.

But here he was, still alive, still wandering. Just as Charlie had said so long ago, "It's up to you whether or not you want to come back to the Island." Perhaps losing everything had resulted in Walt finally being ready. And suddenly the word home and Island felt so natural, and all feelings of grief and anger and denial and fear pooled away. Walt was left with nothing but happiness, for what was almost the first time in his life.

Walt thought about Michael. Thought about the last time he'd ever seen him in person through the window. He thought about his mother in her velvet jacket, saying, "Goodbye," for the last time. He remembered his breakdown after discovering Grandma dead in the living room, of his sadness when he found out that Locke had committed suicide.

All of those things had led to this very moment.

Walt looked back over Santa Rosa then turned. "Home." He thought about the rainforest, the beach, the piles of storm clouds that covered the sky in thick sheets, even the polar bears and monster seemed appealing. Everything clicked into place, and for once in his life, Walt felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. I'm going back to the Island. It's finally happening.

Walt was finally returning home.