I wait for the man at the docks.

He may be the missing link to finding my parents, but I don't understand how he'd know me or why he thinks I'd recognize him. I was a baby when I was abandoned. I couldn't have known anything.

Whether he's a killer, criminal, or rapist, I need to meet him. He never gave a time, though. Well, I'm here now. Part of me hopes he'll show up, and the other half dreads his arrival. He could attack me. Throw me into the water. No one is around. There won't be any witnesses. Yet, I stay put.

Twenty minutes pass.

It's cold out, but my palms are sweating. My heart beats fast in my chest.

Is this a sign? Is there enough time to save myself? What if he shows up while I'm leaving? Each second is one closer to my doom or my escape. But I still wait. I don't want to get caught walking away. I don't want to die, either.

Who knows what this guy wants to show me? He said it would help me remember him. Is it an item, an action, a place? Are they words?

My hands grip the guardrail, and I take a deep breath. I'll be fine. If he thinks he knows me, if he reacted in such an emotional way from seeing me, he won't lay a finger on me. Or should I say "hook?" Ah, sometimes I make myself smile. It helps to make myself grin or laugh because no one else is doing it. So, I might as well.

Another ten minutes go by.

He isn't coming. I guess it's for the best he didn't show. It sure saves me from emotional havoc.

A woman emerges from a shop when I return to town. I don't know what comes over me, but the best way to find out whether my parents are here is to ask the locals.

"Excuse me?" I ask the woman.

"Yes?" She's perplexed. She doesn't know who I am. What a relief!

"Do you know an Aurora or a Phillip?"

"No, sorry, I don't." She leans back, wanting me to leave her alone.

"Have you heard of them? I was told they're in town."

"Sorry." She walks away, thinking I'm insane... Probably.

I hurry across the street and ask a couple the same thing.

"I've heard of them when we were in our land," the woman says.

"What land?"

"The Enchanted Forest, silly." This again? Has everyone in Storybrooke been brainwashed? This is absurd. What adult would believe that there are fairytale worlds and magic in existence? Sure, aliens and other planets exist, but stories are stories. There are no worlds full of fairytale characters. That's ridiculous.

"No," I say. "Like what country are they from? I need a town name or something."

"They're from the Moors." The guy says to his wife, "Is that right?"

"Yes, I believe so. Though, it's called the Moor. The Moors are where Maleficent is from." They must be high on something.

"I want factual information, not what Henry told you."

"That is factual, darling. Aurora and Phillip rule the Moor."

"In an enchanted forest?" I ask, sardonic.

"The Enchanted Forest."

I sigh. "Do you know where they are now?"

She shakes her head. "No, we don't."

"Okay, well, thanks." For nothing.

I ask some other people. Most of them don't know who Aurora and Phillip are. Some people said they heard of them, and one or two said they met them... in the Enchanted Forest... at a ball.

It's not just Henry and that man who're crazy. It's the whole damn town.

I thought it'd be cool to live in a story and have some epic, magical adventure, but that's what it is—a thought. Thoughts cannot become real, no matter how much I think about them. I'm not sure what's happening, but it must be the universe's way of making fun of me for having that thought. She must be like, "You want to live in a fairytale world? Seriously? Fine. Then I'm going to drive you insane and show you how much you can't have it." It's like being a kid and having your classmates wave the latest toy in your face, telling you that you can't have it, no matter how many times you ask for it.

On my walk, I come across a little green store.

The blade sign says, "Mr. Gold Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer."

The "Dark One," according to Henry.

It's just his imagination, but let's see if his description adds up.

I step in, and a chime rings out, giving my visit away. Armor, weapons, tools, furniture, musical instruments, and clothing fill the dim room. All of it's used. Shelves of assorted antiques line the walls, displaying unpolished silverware, mended ceramic bowls, and soiled toys.

The memorabilia are magnificent, but some are creepy. Two wooden marionettes sit on the side counter and give me chills. Their mouths are agape as if they're screaming in agony. They look like decayed corpses, I swear.

"Sorry, we're closed," a male voice says from the back room. The man Belle talked with in the library comes out from behind a curtain and pauses when he sees me. A sly grin forms on his tanned, wrinkled face. "Bella Palmer. I was wondering when you would step into my shop."

How does he know my name? It's best not to question him.

"I apologize, sir. I thought you were open."

"Did I forget to flip the sign again?"

"It would appear so," I say, unsure whether he meant it as a rhetorical question.

"What brings you here, Miss Palmer?" he asks, moving behind the counter next to the curtain.

I stuff my hands in my pockets while he stares at me. It's unsettling. This place feels like a trap—a cage. I should've kept walking.

I don't want to make eye contact, so I look at a glass showcase next to me. It's filled with ancient treasures like the other display casings. "It intrigued me. I'm new in town. I won't be staying long. Henry brought me." I pay attention to the exquisite unicorn mobile hanging above the counter. Some of the translucent unicorns are blue, while others are white. I wonder who the lucky baby was.

Mr. Gold studies me. I sense it. "Henry brought you?" He's interviewing me, and like any interview, I have to say as little as possible.

"Yes. He thinks I'm a character in his storybook. I don't understand why. Do you know him?" As little as possible.

"He's my grandson."

"Oh," I say, stunned. Henry didn't mention that. What else is he keeping from me? "Seems as though everyone I meet in this town is related to him. The Mayor, The Sheriff, Mary Margaret and David, the man with the hook hand—Well, I don't know about him. He's nuts." As little as possible.

"Now, why would you say that?" He has a bit of a Scottish accent, which became apparent in his question. He walks around the counter and steps closer to me.

"You know him? Okay. He thinks he knows me, but he doesn't. I don't know who he is." As little as possible! It's not complicated. What the hell?

"That certainly sounds strange. But, as I said—we're closed. Come again soon, Miss Palmer, and perhaps, next time, we can make a deal."

Before I can ask, "What kind of deal?" the door swings open, and the bell jingles as Belle storms in.

"Rumple—Bella, you're here." What the fuck is a rumple?

"Yeah, I was just leaving," I say.

Belle stands frozen in mid-action. I don't know why it's such a surprise I'm here. Am I not supposed to be?

"Oh, well, ...I'll see you around," she says, loosening up.

"Okay. Bye."

I walk out the door and crouch behind it after it closes. Something's going on around here, and I need to know what it is. So, I twist the doorknob and open the door, careful not to trigger the bell. It's still not my place to eavesdrop on their private conversation, but I need answers.

"What is it, Belle?" Mr. Gold says.

"It's the winged monster. Regina might have found out how to stop it."

"Well, good for her."

"I know you don't get along with her, but give her some credit."

"Regina and I have always had a complicated past, but I am trying to be a better man. Like you asked," he says, putting a hand on her arm.

"I know that. I fell in love with the man behind the beast. Even though you're the Dark One, I know you're trying to embrace the light and goodness that's still in you."

What kind of cult has Henry brought me to? Winged beasts, dark ones, enchanted forests? Am I in one of my wild dreams? If I am dreaming, it's very vivid.

And why is Belle dating this creep? First of all, he's too old for her. He's like in his fifties, and she's around thirty. Maybe even younger. It seems wrong to me.

The pirate approaches from down the street.

Despite wanting to meet him earlier, my initial instinct is to hurry into the alley next to the pawnshop. I back up, trying to figure out what to do. He could murder me.

There's a door on the side of the store.

It's cracked open.

I go inside, but what if I was a robber? Mr. Gold should lock his doors. He doesn't know who might walk in or what they might do.

The back room is strange—full of antiques, bottles, vials, and drapes. It's like I've stepped through a time machine. Like the other room, this one has traditionally styled shelving, curios, and tables. The old hardwood floor is dusty and shows wear from years of browsers, collectors, and bargain hunters. Or from one man pacing. I'm pretty sure this room is off limits to customers, but I'm not a customer.

I observe some of the vials. They're filled with colored liquids, powders, and herbs. I don't know what they are, but they seem sketchy. There are also a bunch of distressed leather-bound books—big ones. The cover of one of them reads Magic Studies.

"Yeah, right," I whisper.

A spinning wheel is near the back. There's straw on the floor next to it, and out of the orifice comes a thread of... gold? I lift it. How is this possible? It could be dyed, but it feels thick and metallic. It's metal. Not straw. Not cloth.

Rumple. As in Rumplestiltskin. But he spins straw into gold coins, not golden yarn. And I've got to remember he doesn't exist. Though, he's probably who Henry thinks Mr. Gold is.

Voices come from the shop area.

"Get out of my shop. You're not welcome here." It's muffled, so I step closer.

"I have something to talk to you about. It's important."

"And what makes you think I care, or rather, that I will help you?"

I approach the open door that leads to the other room and hide behind the curtain to hear the conversation. It's Mr. Gold and the pirate.

"It's about Isabella." Me?

"What about her?" Mr. Gold calms down a bit.

"She's in Storybrooke. Did you know?"

"Yes, I do. I just spoke with her."

"How is that possible? You told me she was dead—that she froze to death."

"What?" Belle exclaims. But yes. What?

"Well, she didn't. I needed you to believe she did because I wanted to see the look on your face when I told you the only person you cared about, besides yourself, was gone."

"And you didn't think I suffered enough? You took Milah from me!"

"You took her from me first. Remember that? She had a son—Bae. You took her from him, too."

"The boy's back now, and so is Bella. And I won't let you mess that up again. Understand, Crocodile?" What a nickname? Wonder where that came from.

"My son may be back, but that doesn't change the fact he grew up without his mother."

"Let's not forget who murdered her."

"She chose you over her family. How was I supposed to tell my boy she abandoned him for a pirate?"

"Let's try to calm ourselves," Belle says.

"I will get my revenge, Dark One, and I expect you to stay away from Bella. Otherwise, you'll have more to worry about than my vengeance."

The bell on the door chimes, so I assume the man left.

I have so many more questions. How can they all be answered? I'm desperate. I don't know what to do. However, I do know I'm mad at Henry, myself, and this town. But the pirate has some explaining to do. Froze to death?

Wait. He called me by my real name, not the one Henry made up. Somehow, this guy knows me, not this "Anna" character. I'm still too scared to talk to him, though.

I'm also too afraid to stay here when there's a killer in the next room.

I move away from the curtain and go to leave, but a rack of old-fashioned costumes—ranging from ballgowns, dresses, shirts, and cloaks—catches my eye. I look through them and stop at a familiar one. It's a purple velvet pirate outfit, similar to the one I wore in my dreams. It's exactly how I'd imagine it. I take the ensemble off the rack and hold it from the hanger. I lay it over my arm to get a better look. It has gold detailing and stitching in flourishes all over.

I glance toward the curtain. No one's coming. The coast is clear.

I roll up the outfit and put it under my arm. I run out the back door to my car, which is down and across the street by the library. Then, I throw the clothes in the trunk, next to my guitar. I slam it shut and look at Mr. Gold's shop.

No one followed me. I'm safe.

After hearing that conversation, it's clear these people aren't putting on an act for me. They believe Henry's stories as if they lived them. Maybe they're role-playing. Maybe I'm on a reality show. Who knows? But something's off, and I need to figure out what.

A loud screech comes out of nowhere.

The hairs on my neck stand up, and a chill spikes through my body. I spin around and freeze when I see it. This is because of what I said about a third encounter, isn't it?

I step back, not knowing what else to do. My brain doesn't know whether to run or scream like the people around me.

The simian shrieks again and soars toward me with its clawed arms stretched out. I run for my life. The monkey-bird picks up momentum with each flap of its powerful wings, blowing gusts of wind at my back.

It's catching up to me.

My fedora flies off, and I bolt until I hide in an alley by a drugstore. My heart pounds, and I can't catch my breath. As I gasp for air, the chill of a slight Autumn breeze touches my damp skin. I try to slow my breathing, so that thing doesn't find and kill me.

I wait for the beast to pass, but its shadow never does.

My chest expands with each shaking inhale.

Where is it?

Thinking I escaped, a breath of relief leaves me.

A knocked-over pipe rattles from above.

The ape stands tall on top of the roof, focusing on me.

My heart drops, and I become paralyzed with fear.

It swoops down.

I scream, dashing to the opposite brick wall of the alley, almost stumbling on a tin garbage can, and lower myself to the ground, bringing my knees up to protect my face.

I'm dead.

Someone shoots a gun, making the creature shriek in pain. Two more gunfires boom in my ears before I cover them.

I open my eyes.

Grey feathers float in the air as the human-sized monkey flies away.

"Are you okay?" Emma asks, helping me up.

"I-I think so." Maybe she knows what these things are. "What was that thing?"

She gazes up to where the creature flew off. "We're not sure, but it looks like a flying monkey to me." I know what it looks like, but what is it? This whole town is full of secrets, and I'm getting sick of it. I haven't been here for twenty-four hours yet, and I'm already over this place.

"What's next?" I say, with my adrenaline surging. "The Wicked Witch of the West is going to say, 'Bibbidi bobbidi boo,' and curse me for all eternity?"

"Actually, 'bibbidi bobbidi boo' is from Cinderella, so..."

Emma turns, revealing a girl about my age. She has blonde, curly hair and wears a blue and white Letterman jacket with gold detailing and a matching baseball cap.

"I knew that—I was just..." I did know that, but I was trying to point out how ridiculous this is. Now, she thinks I don't know basic fairytales. "So, flying monkey? That's not something you see every day. Although, I feel like you guys do."

"This is the first time I've seen it," Emma says, looking at me with hard eyes.

"I saw it chasing you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay." The girl steps closer. Old newspaper and debris crunch under her feet.

"We're fine," Emma says, tucking away her gun.

"You're lucky the Sheriff was here to save you," the girl says to me.

I turn my head to Emma. "Yeah. Lucky."

The girl breaks the tense silence between me and Emma. "Her and her dad, David, run the station together."

"I know. Henry mentioned it over lunch yesterday."

The girl glances at Emma, then at me with a sudden realization. "Wait. Did Henry tell you his mom's the Mayor?"

I nod.

"That would be his other mom, Regina."

"So he said." I give Emma a questioning look. Are they together, or is one Henry's step-mom?

"It's a long story," she says as if reading my mind. Her phone buzzes, and she takes it out of her pocket to read the text. "A sheriff's work is never done. I gotta go."

"Bye," the blonde girl says.

"Bye, and thanks." I'm unsure if this encounter will eliminate the tension between me and Emma, but it seems to have softened a little.

She grins and darts across the street.

The girl kicks at a garbage can lid, and it clangs on the cement ground. "So, ...I'm Delilah. Nice to meet you." She tips her baseball cap and curtsies. The metallic fabric on the hat shines in the sunlight.

"Bella. Bella Palmer. And, yeah, I just did the whole James Bond intro."

"Except, he does it with his last name, but, yeah, sure."

"I'll call it 'The Reverse Bond.'"

She laughs, and it takes a second for me to join in. I can't help it. Her laughter's infectious.

I haven't had a decent conversation with someone my age in... Let's see... I'm sixteen... Let's just say for a really long time.

This feels off. I want a friend, but I don't know how to make one anymore. Not since Chloe.

"I heard about a newbie in town. You have a lot to learn." She opens her arms and leans forward as she speaks in a hopeful voice. "I could be your own personal tour guide if you want."

"Sorry, but Henry's kind of my guide right now."

"Are you sure?" She smiles with eagerness. "I bet he doesn't know where all the cool kids hang out."

"You mean Granny's?" I say, moving toward her.

"There are other places," she says, teasingly shaking her head.

"No, thanks."

"A-Alright. Another time."

Delilah has a small notepad in her hand.

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she says, stuffing it into her pocket. "Homework junk."

I go to walk across the street, but a question I want answered—a few questions, actually—hit me. I turn on the sidewalk and say, "Henry thinks I'm Queen Anna. Who're you?"

"Nobody's heard of me," she says, quiet yet tense. "I don't think anyone knows my story. It sucks."

"And your story is..."

"I'm Blondilocks, the daughter of Goldilocks." That's a new one. They think nursery rhymes are real, too?

"You believe Henry?" I say, pushing my hair behind my ear.

"He didn't tell me. I know 'cause I am. It may be hard for you, though—to believe, I mean. No one's taught you anything yet."

"I learn from experiences, not from teaching. Which must be why I'm not doing well in school." I whisper the last part to myself.

"If you need help with anything," she shrugs a shoulder, "I'm around."

"Thanks, but I'm good."

She's crazy, and I can only handle a certain amount of it at a time. But this may have been the first time I've forgotten about my stress and problems since arriving in Storybrooke. She seems nice, but does she have to be a kook like everyone else? What's with this town?

* * *

Everything in Storybrooke makes me want to run. If the opportunity to find my parents didn't exist, I would have by now. There are flying monkeys and murderers. People are crazy. They recognize me and know things about me. They stare and point guns at me. I must be as nutty as everyone here if I'm still staying after all that. I'm not going anywhere. I will find my parents and be free of the foster system. And when I find them, I'll convince them to move to another town. One near the beach, a music store, and a diner named in the possessive.

Around twelve, I head back to Granny's for lunch. When I reach the front arch to the diner, the pirate walks out from under it. We both freeze—me in fear, him in surprise.

"Isabella?" he utters. "I didn't believe it at first, but it really is you."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, leaning back.

"I waited for you at the docks last night. You never showed."

I'm not going to tell him I was there this morning. That would show my desperation and vulnerability. A perpetrator's sign to strike. I don't want to be struck. "Because I don't know you. Not to mention, you're crazy. Who wears a full-on pirate costume for two days straight? Do you work at a seafood restaurant, or is this for a cosplay convention?"

He scrunches his face. "Cosplay? What the bloody hell is that?" His accent is not pure English as I thought. There's a hint of Irish in there, too.

"How do you not know what that is?"

"And how do you not know who I am?"

I pause, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"How is it you don't remember me? What curse are you under?" More curses? Is no one sane here?

"Curse?"

"It's me—Hook."

"You are supposed to be Captain Hook?" I glance at his attire. "I like the direction you went in. It's very different."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" he asks, frustrated.

"I like how you guys care about Henry so much that you play along and dress like the characters he thinks you are, but don't you think it's harming his sense of reality? He believes everything in his storybook is true."

"It is, love," he says gently.

"Don't call me that."

"Look. I have some things that might help you remember. They're in the Cannery." He moves to head over.

"I'm not going with you."

"Isabella—"

"I go by Bella."

"Bella. I promise I'm someone worth remembering. Please allow me to give you the opportunity."

The opportunity to murder me? No, thanks. "Not unless you happen to know my parents."

"I know your mother." Lies. He couldn't possibly know my mother. Could he? If he does, he must think they're Aurora and Phillip like everybody else.

"Please don't tell me her name is Aurora or that she's a princess."

"She is. And that is her name."

My breathing trembles as I look at him. "How do you know her?"

"We've... crossed paths." What am I supposed to make out of that? It's so cryptic. Were they friends, coworkers, together, related—what?

"What's your real name, Hook?"

"Killian. Killian Jones."

I try to hide my smile from how he used the Reverse Bond method. "I still think everyone here is out of their minds, but I'll consider meeting with you."

"I'm fine with that." He gives a slight grin.

"What's my mother's real name?"

"Aurora."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye," he says with a nod.

Her believing she was Princess Aurora could be why my mom abandoned me. Maybe she and my dad are crazy, too, and they didn't want me to be surrounded by these people or themselves. Or someone took me from them. To save me. I don't know. I don't know anything.

"You're taking this pirate thing seriously."

He examines my bruised throat. "Did someone hurt you?" He reaches out to brush my hair away, but I flinch back. His hand freezes mid-action until he curls his fingers closed, lowering his eyes. "I apologize, lass."

I watch his face. I know it from somewhere. His thick eyebrows, blue eyes, the scar on his right cheek, his subtle go-tee. Everything is familiar.

"Someone did hurt me," I say, still gazing at him, my voice hoarse.

He lifts his eyes with his head tilted downward.

"But I took care of him."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I have no doubt you did." He prolongs our eye contact with rose cheeks, and my heart thuds in my chest.

Why was I avoiding this? Why am I only meeting him now?

Where do I know him from?

I ask, soft, "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Deep sorrow returns to his face, and his Adam's apple bobs from a heavy swallow. His arms hang at his sides. His eyes become vacant.

Right when I think he's about to call me Isabella and explain how he thought I froze to death, he says, "No... No, you don't."

Yes. Yes, I do.

Who are you?