Sleep didn't come for a while. I kept thinking about all the bewildering events that happened to me in Storybrooke and whether everyone's right about magic. I questioned my sanity. I examined my existence. Questions about my mother's whereabouts danced to a haunting melody of uncertainty. Ashley could hold the answers, being her friend, but I'm too afraid she'll say Aurora's not in town.

I'm hesitant to search for my parents again. I don't want to find out the worst possible thing. It isn't safe to keep playing with the universe. It's already decided. If I'm not meant to have a family, I'm not meant for one.

Period.

Frustration drives me to grab a pen and notepad from the nightstand's drawer, fueled by a compulsion to chart the enigma that is Storybrooke. As I list the bizarre occurrences, the connections between them emerge, each thread woven into a complex tapestry. What if it's possible that Henry's right—that everyone's right?

𝐹𝓁𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓀𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓂𝑒 (𝓌𝒽𝓎?)

𝒫𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈???

𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒶𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹

𝒫𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎'𝓇𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝐻𝑒𝓃𝓇𝓎'𝓈 𝒷𝑜𝑜𝓀

𝐻𝑒𝓃𝓇𝓎'𝓈 𝒷𝑜𝑜𝓀

"𝑀𝒶𝑔𝒾𝒸" 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒

𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

𝒫𝒶𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝒹𝓃𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐻𝑒𝓃𝓇𝓎

𝒩𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒞𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒

𝐸𝓃𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉

𝒫𝓊𝓇𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝓅𝓊𝒻𝒻 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓂𝑜𝓀𝑒

𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎𝒷𝓇𝑜𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝒾𝒹𝒹𝑒𝓃 (𝓃𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝑒𝓍𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒, 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓅𝓈) → 𝒾𝓃𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒?

𝐿𝑜𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓈

𝒟𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓁𝒶𝒽'𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 (𝒻𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓎 𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓁)

I stare at the list. Everything has to do with magic and fairytales. I knew they would. But how everything's linked is far too complicated for a twelve-year-old boy to devise.

A sudden urge to unravel this web of mysteries prompts me to sketch a mind map, but the labyrinthine connections leave me more confused than enlightened.

Around five, I get out of bed before the others instead of thinking more. With little sleep and no caffeine in my system, everything's too difficult to ponder over. I dress in the outfit I bought with Ruby and Delilah, then apply Neosporin to the worst of the scratches on my face. The apartment remains silent as I slip out, placing my charcoal wide-brimmed hat on my head. As I walk outside into the frosty air, I avoid the temptation to say "Goodbye" to Emma, Mary Margaret, and David. I don't want to see their faces when I do. It's easier to leave now and let the letter I left on my bed explain for me.

* * *

Shrouded in dawn's tranquility, the forest shows no sign of the other day's chaos. However, the memory of my encounter with Hortense still lingers, and I'm worried I may not be as lucky if we cross paths again. Despite this, I continue on, determined to clear my head.

The sun peeks through the barren trees, drying the morning dew and rain that fell overnight. Droplets drip from branches and fall onto my face and coat. Isn't it sweet how sometimes the world weeps for you?

Pine, balsam, and wet earth swirl together in the crisp air as I trek deeper into the forest, the crunch of twigs and leaves under my boots filling the silence. The only other sound is the euphonious melody of birdsong, a symphony of harmonious notes and rhythms. I close my eyes, taking in the fresh air and gentle warmth of the sun on my skin. The woods are serene at this time, and for a moment, it's like I'm the only one in the world.

Bathed in the pleasant embrace of the rising sun like a singer under a spotlight, I find a hiking trail and follow it to a small clearing with a cliff that overlooks Storybrooke. The town, nestled in a misty cocoon, stretches out below, the clocktower peeking above the fog. The sky is orange and blue, with a golden sheen blanketing the atmosphere. A chilly breeze blows against my face, and I put my hands into my coat's pockets, gazing over the town.

Storybrooke's beautiful.

I've opened the bottle after keeping it closed tight for a while, but I need to open it again despite hating myself for it. Crying is weakness, and I'm strong. I am. Regardless, I break down in tears. Wet, freezing tears. I keep my sobs quiet, but they burst out the moment I gasp for air, breaking the stillness.

This is the best place I've ever been. I love it here. I wholeheartedly do. I've grown attached to its peculiarities, magic, and people.

I wipe away the rivulets but continue to cry. My chest expands, and I shake with each breath.

I allow myself one last look at Storybrooke, grieving the loss of something that was never mine in the first place.

* * *

It's a familiar yet uncomfortable position seeking refuge from potential awkwardness at Granny's instead of enjoying a coffee at the café. Delilah and I may have made up, but I still don't trust her, so I'm avoiding it at all costs.

Sitting at a corner table in one of the bay window alcoves by the door, I observe the morning crowd. It's an unusual mix of people in suits, business casual, and a couple of medical professionals in scrubs. Other than people with jobs, who gets up this early for breakfast? That would be me, wouldn't it? So I'm part of that club now. Great.

"I almost didn't see you there," Ruby says, approaching me with a coffeepot.

"Fill me up." I flip over the mug in front of me and push it toward her.

She pours the wannabe coffee into my cup with a teasing smile. "I thought the mocha was too good to go back to this."

"Yeah, but there's something about diner coffee." I slump deeper into the seat and whisper, "Thanks," placing the mug on its saucer.

"Are you good?" Ruby asks, a hand on her hip.

"I'm fine."

"You're here at six in the morning. Couldn't sleep or something?"

"Something like that."

"If it weren't for this job, I'd stay in bed 'til noon, even if I couldn't sleep. Anything beats getting up and going out at the crack of dawn."

I dip a spoon into the black ocean and swirl it around, creating a weak whirlpool. Sadness and uncertainty pull at me in every direction, snapping heartstrings like loose threads.

Am I making the right decision?

If I am, why is it killing me? Why couldn't this be easy? After spending so much time in Storybrooke and being welcomed into the family, I'm gonna leave? Without saying "Goodbye?" Leaving Storybrooke and my newfound friends feels like a betrayal. It is a betrayal.

Hook's devastated face haunts my thoughts. He believes he lost me once, and I can't let it happen twice, even if the first time never happened to me.

Deserting everyone like this is discourteous after all they've done for me, yet I can't utter parting words. Not to their faces. I hope they can forgive me for my silence...if we ever see each other again.

"Why does life do this?" My voice is soft, and my eyes fill with tears, my finger tracing the saucer's edge. "Give you something magnificent only for you to say 'Goodbye' to it?"

Ruby tilts her head and shrugs a shoulder. "Who knows? Maybe it's so we appreciate things more." Her eyes widen when I tell her about my walk in the woods. "You're not afraid of Delilah's bear?"

I stare at my black coffee, the rising grey steam slithering into the air. "Not really. Once you're seconds away from death, you're not as scared to go back."

She lets out a breath, acknowledging my pain. "Enjoy the coffee."

"Ruby?" I say, calling her back. "Milk."

Her half-smile conveys understanding, and she goes to fetch it for me.

The bell above the door jingles behind me.

"Hey," Neal says, breathing out the cold air from outside. He gestures toward the seat opposite me. "Mind?"

I shake my head, and he settles into the chair, our proximity almost intrusive. My crossed arms rest on the edge of the table, forming a shield of sorts.

"It's cold in Maine," Neal remarks, moving his shoulders up and down to defrost. "I'm from New York, so I should be used to it."

"New York can be freezing," I say, watching my coffee.

"Yeah, but it's not like this. It's September. It's not supposed to be this cold yet."

"It was warm this week. I like warm Autumn days."

"Yeah, they're nice...Can we stop talking about the weather? That's a topic for strangers."

I lift my eyes to him. "We are strangers."

"Really? We've talked before. We had dinner at the apartment with the others. We saw Tron the other night with Henry. We're not strangers."

"But I barely know you."

"Well, I know you. You play guitar—don't think we can't hear you 'cause you shut your door," Neal says, wagging a finger, eliciting a grin out of me, "you want nothing more than to find your parents, and you love chocolate. I mean, only a true chocoholic would pour chocolate syrup into their mug."

"That's how they do it at Starbucks," I defend with a smile. "Besides, I thought no one was looking."

"Hey, I'm not judging," he says, raising his hands in surrender. "Just saying someone with a love of chocolate can spot another a mile away."

"I thought it was the perfect chocolate crime."

Neal laughs, and I join in.

I'm leaving.

I stop and force a smile.

"What's going on?" Tinker Bell inquires, appearing by the table.

"Hey, Tink," Neal greets her, moving a chair over, so she can sit next to him. I don't remember giving him the authority to send invites to my table. I'm not in the mood for a conversation right now. I sat here to be alone, not to engage in socialization. My fault for letting him sit here.

Tinker Bell's appearance has remained consistent since our first meeting. Don't she and Hook have other clothes? "Isabella."

"Bella. Please," I remind her again.

"Wait. Isabella?" Neal asks, turning to Tink. "Hook's friend?"

She nods while I squint my eyes, trying to understand why he's having this reaction.

Neal looks at me again and pauses as if trying to place me. Then a moment of realization crosses his face, his eyes widening. "Holy cow! Isabella." With a laugh, he grabs my hand across the table, appearing shocked but thrilled to see me in this new light. "Damn. You grew up." He knew me, too?

"Care to explain what's going on here?" I say, raising our linked hands.

The fact that I don't remember my past comes back to him, and he retracts his hand. "Sorry, Bella—Izzy—Sorry. That's what we used to call you." He takes a short moment to gather his thoughts before speaking again. "It's such a relief to see another familiar face from my childhood, you know? I never expected to see you again."

"So you two know each other?" Tink asks, pointing between Neal and me.

"Ages ago, when she was nine. We met in Neverland. It was her first trip."

"Let me guess," I say, leaning forward, my arms still folded on the table. "You were a Lost Boy."

"Actually, I was trapped. Pan wouldn't let me leave."

"You, too? What's with people getting trapped on Neverland?"

"Peter Pan's not a good guy. He won't let anyone leave unless they have his permission."

I raise my hand. "I'm gonna stop you right there. And to think you were normal."

"I guess that means you still don't remember me?" Tink says, and I shake my head. "It's too bad. We were friends in Neverland. I still remember the first time we met."

"For me, the first time we met was Tuesday."

She sighs. "I heard you were a queen. I always thought you'd be an exceptional leader, Bella. A queen suits you."

"I'm not a queen. I'm not even a princess."

"Can't a memory potion fix this?" Tink asks, turning to Neal, her frustration with my "amnesia" clear.

"Yeah, it could, but my dad says the ingredients are hard to come by."

"Then give me the list. I could send it off to Blue." Blue. The lady who thinks she can turn into a butterfly. A lady who thinks she's responsible for my and Hook's friendship. Yeah, like she could help with my memories.

"I thought you were too ashamed to talk to her."

Tink turns to me and says, "I'd do anything for a friend."

"I don't understand why people want me to remember. It's not like I'm special or anything."

"But you are," Tink insists. "We want you to get your memories back because we want you to remember how much you changed our lives and how we impacted yours. We want you to know how remarkable you are."

"But...almost everyone in Storybrooke wants me to remember."

"Exactly."

"That's how many people you've affected," Neal adds. "You've touched all of us, even those who've just met you."

The idea that I've had such a profound impact on so many people's lives is mind-boggling. I mean, I'm just a girl from New Jersey. I'm not a queen. I'm not a princess. There is no past life. The thought of me being a leader and a hero is almost too much to bear. As much as I want to believe Tink and Neal, it's hard to imagine I was ever any of those things.

The weight of everyone's expectations and the pressure to live up to my "past self" are daunting. But that doesn't mean I can't strive to become that person—the person they want me to be. I won't change myself into something I'm not; only live up to my full potential. It'll be challenging, but I'm hopeful it'll all be worthwhile.

"Here you go," Ruby interrupts, shifting my attention as she places a glass creamer on the table. What's inside isn't plain milk.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Chocolate milk."

I stare at her, expecting an explanation but sensing where she's headed.

"Enjoy your mocha," she says with a sly smile.

I don't know what to say other than how much I wish I could stay in Storybrooke.

"Ruby's wonderful," Tink says.

"Yeah, she is," I agree with teary eyes. "She's like...a big sister." I watch Ruby working behind the counter, and when she catches me, she smiles. Ruby always makes everything feel better, and moments like this make me appreciate her more.

I take a sip of the coffee-chocolate milk mixture and allow its warmth and comfort to fill me up. Despite all the uncertainty in my life, I have people like Ruby who care about me and want to see me happy. There's a sense of hope and contentment in this moment, something I will cherish for a long time.

* * *

Granny's grows busier as the clock inches closer to seven. I watch the customers chat over their breakfasts. Most of the early risers and professionals left with their to-go orders, consisting of coffee and a pastry or a bagel. All I ate was a butter croissant Granny warmed up.

Ruby's idea of using chocolate milk instead of plain is genius! My diner coffee tastes like a mocha. Is it better than Be Our Guest Café? No, but it'll hold me over.

Balancing a loaded tray of dirty dishes, Ruby comes over to my table. "A bunch of us are going to ladies' night at The Rabbit Hole, and I want to invite you. They don't check IDs at the door, so you'll be fine getting in."

"I'm underaged."

"That's okay. You can have a soda or something."

The thought of going out for a ladies' night catches me off guard. I've never been to a bar for real drinking or experienced a girls' night. I've attended a couple of sleepovers as a ten-year-old where we'd hit each other with pillows, play with Barbies, and watch PG-13 movies, but I've never had this kind of girls' night. It's in an entirely different league. Booze and talking about boys and dressing up and dark atmospheres and discussing feelings. I don't like talking about feelings. But somehow, Mary Margaret made that easier for me. If she'll be there, maybe I'll get through okay.

Then something clicks in my memory. "This is tonight?"

"Yeah, at nine."

I could extend my stay and leave tomorrow, but I don't want to put myself through all this again. "I don't think I can make it. I'm gonna be busy."

Ruby shifts her weight to her other leg and shakes her head. "That's okay."

"Thanks for the invite, though."

"No problem."

"Ruby!" Granny's voice booms from the service window. "I'm not paying you to talk."

"You don't pay me at all!" Ruby rolls her eyes and storms off to the counter.

"You can roll your eyes right out of your head, young lady. It won't change the rules around here."

"Stop treating me like a baby!"

"I'll treat you however I want to treat you."

As their heated argument continues, I sip my coffee, pretending to ignore them.

I appreciate Ruby for respecting my choice of not attending ladies' night and not questioning what I'll be busy doing. I hate it when people do that 'cause it's none of their business. If I say I can't go, I can't go.

Ladies' night sounds fun, but I'll be gone by then.

I search for local motels and inns on my phone, but Granny's Bed and Breakfast doesn't come up, even though it's the most local. Strange. Anyway, I find a motel not too far from Storybrooke. If only I had enough money. I'll have to live in my car until I figure out whether I should return to the foster home or take to the streets and make a life for myself. No matter what I choose to do, time is of the essence.

I leave at eight.