It's too real for him to just imagine that he's dreaming all this - even if everything seems a little blurred around the edges of his vision, the haze isn't from illusion.

Doc nods, his eyes falling to a newspaper which gives away the date.

(1883.)




He looks back at the altar and then straightens his stance; his fingers itch for a gunbelt that's not there. He feels exposed, without his guns at his hips, dressed in flannel and a pair of socks.

"I think I'm done here," he says quietly. "Thank you."

There is still more to come, he knows that. But he can't stay here, where even the air that presses around them threatens to steal his breath away.