After much persuading, Killian leaves. I remain at the table for the rest of the afternoon, observing the comings and goings of the people around me, then move to the counter for a change of scenery. As I settle in, I notice a forgotten business card lying there.

The card reads, "Storybrooke Clinic," and bears the name of Dr. Archibald Hopper, a psychiatrist.

"That's Archie's," Granny says, drying her hands with a rag. "He has a psychiatry office in the brick building across the street." She cocks her head toward the door to indicate the direction. "You'll find the main entrance between Storybrooke Country Bread and Modern Fashions. Can't miss it."

For a moment, I consider calling the phone number, but if it's across the street, might as well go in person.

Beside the main entrance is the Storybrooke Heritage Seal—a tree behind a beehive. According to the seal's plaque, this is the Heritage Building.

Doctor Hopper's office is on the second floor, and I find it at the end of a long hall. I poke my head through the doorway, and a coatrack wearing a black coat startles me...I thought it was a person.

The walls are covered with striped yellow wallpaper, and cricket green wainscoting and crown moldings add a touch of elegance. Two brown leather couches occupy the center of the room, and a wooden tray on the coffee table holds a pitcher of water and four tall glasses.

I am drawn to a red-haired man sitting at a cherry writing desk in the corner. He wears a tweed jacket and amber-framed glasses, giving him the appearance of a nutty professor. Envelopes fill the desk's compartments, and the top of the hutch carries a white bust of someone I don't know, a small plant, and a smaller bust of someone else I don't know. A framed Doctor of Psychiatry diploma from the Stanforth University School of Medicine hangs above the desk. There's also—

Oh, shit, the man moved.

I flinch back into the doorway, then peer in again. There's a half-devoured burger sitting in a styrofoam container on the man's desk. I hesitate, unsure if it's an appropriate time to approach him.

I could be dying, and so the urgency of my situation pushes me forward because I can either get answers now or regret not being pushy back when I was alive.

Summoning the courage, I tap my knuckle on the cricket green door. "Yoo-hoo. Excuse me." I cringe at the sound of my voice. Since when do I say, "Yoo-hoo?"

The man, seated in a Windsor chair, glances over his shoulder, chewing his food. His ginger hair is wispy, and his sweater vest, tie, and crisp collared shirt further add to his scholarly demeanor. "Yes?" he says once he swallows.

"I don't mean to interrupt," yes, you do, "but do you have a minute?"

He wipes his hands with a wrinkled napkin. "Of course." That's nice, I suppose. This is his lunch hour, yet he's allowing me to take up his time. Interesting. Maybe it's not just the Nolans, Belle, Delilah, Ruby, and Killian who are kind. It must be a common trait in Storybrooke.

I step into the office as he heads to a leather armchair that faces away from a window overlooking the Marine Garage. The tops of the window panes say, "Dr. Archibald Hopper, M.D. - Psychiatrist." However, it's written backward since the decal's pasted on the outside.

I take a seat on one of the couches. "My name is Bella, and—"

"Bella? As in Bella Palmer?" Doctor Hopper says, leaning over with interest. Why must everyone know who I am?

I sigh. "Yeah, that's me."

"Gosh, I was wondering when we would run into each other. Henry's been raving about you since he found your story in his book. The name's Archie, but around here," he says, referring to the clinic, "they call me Doctor Hopper." He outstretches his hand, and I shake it. Then, he reaches into his pocket. "Since you're here, I assume you already know I'm a psychiatrist," he hands me his card—a duplicate of the one in my pocket, "but here's my card, anyway, for future reference."

"Thanks. Can I ask you something?" I say.

"Go right ahead." He lifts himself from the armchair and says, "Water?" He points to the pitcher on the coffee table.

"Sure. Thanks." As he pours me a glass, I say, "I've been having visions recently." The more I say it, the easier it gets. Because no one thinks it's strange.

"Visions?"

I nod and describe the accompanying migraines and loss of balance. "They kind of feel like..."

"Like what?" he says, handing me the glass of water.

"Memories. Uh, thank you. For this," I say, raising the glass. I look toward the back window and take a long sip.

"Of course." He returns to the armchair and ponders.

I avoid his gaze and continue drinking water, observing the room to distract myself. Framed images depicting botanicals or greyscale photos of various locations in Storybrooke hang on the walls. Bookcases and plants add a touch of coziness to the space. It must be even cozier when it rains.

It's rude to ignore the psychiatrist when I'm taking up his lunch break, so I ask, "Am I going crazy?"

"No," he says, chuckling. "You're not going crazy."

"So what's happening to me? These visions feel like they've happened before. It's like déjà vu."

"Do you appear in these visions?"

"Yes. And others, too, like David and some little girl."

He shakes his head. "'Little girl?'"

"She seems so familiar, but I don't know who she is or is supposed to be. Stranger, I'm...I'm seeing the visions through her eyes."

Doctor Hopper takes a moment to ponder.

"What's happening to me?" I ask.

"When did these visions start?"

"Yesterday."

"Did anything happen yesterday to trigger them?"

"Not yesterday, but the night before...Henry's book."

"What about it?"

I hesitate to reveal the truth, aware of how it might sound. I can't tell a psychiatrist what happened. He'd have me committed for sure. "It had an image of someone who looked like me inside but from another world or time."

"I have to say, I know that book quite well. Each image depicts our past selves before Regina cast the curse. So if you came across a picture of Queen Anna from Arendelle, that's you." Great. Even the psychiatrist is insane. I could've called that.

"That doesn't make sense," I say, inhaling the dusty scent of the office and becoming claustrophobic in my own skin.

"Not right now, but it will."

The condensation on the glass seeps between my fingers. The coolness adds a temporary relief from the burning fireplace next to the desk. My couch faces it, a reminder of my burned book, and I'm forced to stare at its gaping, crackling inferno.

Since Hopper here is as crazy as I might be, I'm gonna tell the truth, no matter how itchy it makes me. "The book shot a force at me."

Doctor Hopper angles his ear closer. "Pardon?"

"I know it sounds strange, but it did."

"Magic?"

Having enough of this topic, I roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, I guess."

"It's possible the magic awakened something inside of you. These visions could be your—"

"Memories coming back?"

He doesn't say anything.

"I'm sick and tired of people saying that."

"I know it's hard for someone accustomed to the Land Without Magic to believe, but it is real. Magic is real, Bella. You have to open your mind enough to see past what you thought was real into everything else that could exist under the surface, too. It might take time to adjust, but once your mind loosens up, you might surprise yourself."

"I think you need this card more than I do," I say, offering it back.

"Look at the big picture. Is there anything around you saying otherwise?"

"It's a known fact. Magic doesn't exist."

"What about Thor?"

"He's an alien. His powers must come from science. DNA."

Undeterred, Doctor Hopper sighs, knowing he isn't getting anywhere with me. It almost makes me feel bad for him. "What are you seeking from life, Bella?"

"My parents. It's why I'm in Storybrooke."

"It's a possibility your visions are stress-related." His avoidance of eye contact tells me he only said that because it's what I want to hear—a natural, scientific explanation. "I suggest you take a break from finding them. Take some time to relax."

"You really think that'll help?"

"It should. And try to focus less on the things that wear you thin, like your visions. It's the little things that make one happy. Focus on those instead." This reminds me of what Mary Margaret said—to live good moments instead of the bad ones already lived.

"Live good moments," I whisper.

"Exactly. Try to find the joy in the present moment and build connections with the people of Storybrooke. Sometimes, living good moments can be as meaningful as uncovering the past. Let them and your conscience guide you through this difficult time. I guarantee you'll see a major change in your life."

I sigh. "You're a real Jiminy Cricket, aren't you?"

"If only you knew how true that is."

I don't have to die alone.

Here I am in Storybrooke, surrounded by new friends. I may not know them well, but they're all I've got. It's about time the walls come down.

I've been through too many bad moments, and I want to say I've lived a good life. I still have time, though I don't know how much. I need to take Mary Margaret's advice and live as many good moments as I can—while I still can. They need to replace the bad ones. I will say I've lived a good life in the end. Who cares about the middle? Sure, life's a journey, and it's more valuable than the destination, but does that still count when the destination is death? I want to make my time on Earth mean something. I can do it. I can begin again. I can live good moments before I go.

I don't want to go.

* * *

I'm not sure what to think anymore. Storybrooke's nothing like the places I've been to—not that I've been to many places, just several foster homes. The people of this town are quirky, but why must they all believe in magic and fairytales? How can someone be so full of hope and happiness and not worry about the tragic events life brings? Have any of the citizens experienced hatred, death, betrayal, or loss? Killian, Emma, Mary Margaret, and David have, but they all seem content with life. Has anyone let them or any of the others down? Stabbed them in the back? Taken advantage of them? Besides a select few, I've never seen anyone express so much feeling or believe in something with such vehemence the way they do. The residents of Storybrooke make the world seem joyful and full of opportunities. I'm not sure if I could ever view the universe that way. It feels impossible. But then again, impossible itself says, "I'm possible." All that's missing is an apostrophe and a space. It's funny to think those minor changes can make such a detrimental impact on one's mindset when missing.

Mary Margaret's voice comes from the other side of the bathroom door. "I think he's right."

"Of course, you would agree with him," I say, staring at my reflection in the mirror, two of Doctor Whale's pills in my hand. I explained to him earlier about what happened with Henry, and he understood. He said Henry tends to be rash, like when he put himself under the Sleeping Curse to save Emma. Within the hour, he sent over another bottle of pills.

"There will always be bad moments, Bella, no matter what. The best way to show them they don't own you is to live good moments. So live them."

"I'm not sure how I can do that when I'm turning into a circus sideshow."

"I can't tell you what your visions are, but them being memories makes sense."

"I wish they'd stop. They make me feel insane."

"Listen to Archie and take a breather."

I look at the pills in my hand, then gaze at the half-filled glass of water on the sink's ledge. A lot of people take medication for a variety of health reasons, but I'm not sick—not physically. I might be mentally ill, though. I may be dying. But I've known far too many people who take pills for whatever reason, and they all have one thing in common—they become numb. They're either too happy, too sad, or too angry twenty-four/seven. They never seem to express any other emotion. Sometimes, they don't appear to feel anything at all. Numb.

I don't want to be like them. I want to feel happiness, hope, even sadness and rage because there will always be bad moments, no matter what, like Mary Margaret said. I need both the good and bad to live and experience what it means to be human, even if I don't have much time left.

"Bella?" Mary Margaret taps on the door. "Is everything okay in there?"

I dump the two pills into the trash bin and toss in the bottle. "They will be."