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[originallutece]

Someday.

[Someday, someday. Someday, he will come to get her, Rosalind knows. He'll find his way into her arms once more, because Robert is as attached to her as she is him, and a life without her will be very nearly intolerable. They tore open the universe once to find one another, and he will again. But . . .

She remembers Booker. Seventy-two years, Elizabeth had once waited for him. Robert will come for her, yes, of course he will, but there's no guarantee it'll be anytime soon. A year? Two years? But ah, does it truly matter? He'll come for her, and they'll find a way out, and time will once again cease to have any meaning for them. They can spend an eternity making up for lost time.

(She dreams of him sometimes. She dreams of him stepping off that train, of falling asleep in his arms, his fingers tangled in her hair, his breath slow and even. The way he'd look, dressed down the way she is, his crisp waistcoats and suit jackets traded in for nothing more than an Oxford shirt. The way he'd act, giddy that they were in a place where they could act as a proper couple, delighted by all the friends she's made for them. She knows him so well, her mind knows precisely what he'd say, what he'd do, right down to the way his hand would feel in hers, and--

And then she wakes up, and her longing grows all the worse for it).]

I suppose I'll brag to your mother on that day. Your son's by far the best pie maker I've ever met, even if he lets people sneak bites, something like that.