On the beach, the universe is tuning up as Sam wanders, pulled along by music; he follows himself to a guitar's neck, half-buried in the sand, and their song begins to play again. Sam stares around, holding it faithfully, grinning excitedly. A piece of the past. Earth is broken, burnt and used, but the Final Five haven't even had this much home since the Nebula. Every answered question, every memory, is more beautiful than it is sad, because it means some kind of continuity. A firm place to stand, finally, no matter how ugly or tired it is. He sings softly, words of the song he'd forgotten. The hour is getting late. He drops the neck, and runs off excitedly to tell the others. To share even this strange piece of home, and what it means.

Galen rests in a niche against the wall where he died. He looks peaceful, that funny peace he brings when things are at their darkest. Sam asks if he's remembering, and Galen nearly smiles. "Yeah. I used to live here." Sam nods, and turns to include Tory as she approaches. "Me too. That song that switched us on? I played it. For a woman I loved." Tory remembers, her voice still sad. "You played it for all of us." Galen points at the shadow on the wall: "That was me."

"We died in a holocaust," Galen says, and Sam's still twitching with excitement. "Then why are we still alive? That happened 2,000 years ago." Tory touches Galen's shadow while Sam jumps around. "How did we get to the Colonies? Come to think that we were human? 2,000 years is a long time to forget..." Galen looks at the sky, lost to memory; Tory looks at the ground, close to Sam but not touching. They are all alone, together.

V: Four Funerals

Laura lights the Scrolls of Pythia one page at a time, with a fireplace lighter. She turns the pages, looking at them for the last time, back to front, lighting them as she goes. She is sitting on the floor, sitting where she dropped when she got home and grabbed the book that killed her. Bill enters their quarters without knocking, because it is his home, too. "We gotta do something. Morale is going down the toilet... What are you doing?"

Burning off what doesn't work anymore. "Pythian prophecy?" he asks, and sits down by her side. This is a world ending; this is another wall falling down. "Cottle told me that you didn't show up for your doloxan treatment," he says gingerly, and she admits it's true. "Do you want to tell me why?" She keeps turning pages: "I didn't feel like it." Bill urges her back, trying to hold all the pieces at once: "You're gonna reschedule..." She quietly tells him he's wrong; she's preoccupied and barely there. "Laura, you need your treatments," he says, almost begging; she assures him that she doesn't but she won't meet his eyes.