#mindfieldx

The last time he saw her name in print, it was etched on a tombstone over an empty grave. Standard procedure for fallen militia, presumed long gone. For better or worse, the last time he put eyes on it was seven years ago. He hasn't forgotten, could never forget if he tried. But Harvey knew Jo when she was alive; smiling, arguing, breathing -- there was no need to mar the memory by staring at an empty grave.

Except it sneaks up on him, on the dossier of FBI assets joining the city's taskforce. Joanna Larsen. Typed in Timed New fucking Roman, haunting and simultaneously cold. Surely, it's a coincidence. A common enough name in the United States, right? Harvey dismisses it for days, ignoring the knot in his stomach that tells him something different. It's impossible, and entertaining his wistful delusions is stupid. She's gone, and no amount of haunted dreams will her back to existence.

But he picks up his feet from behind his desk, flaps his collar to conceal the burn marks from his latest incident. The address is easy enough to smuggle out of the dossier, and Harvey decides he needs to know. Once and for all. His hand is rough on the door, knocking and near banging. Desperate and undone, until --

"What the fuck?" He says, throat gone dry and blue eyes ablazing. Their story was over, and in all his hopes of her return, he never expected her.