Chapter Text
A book, a book that doesn't tell the full truth but enough. Just enough for this to work. A necklace, a necklace with the first letter of her names. She will know who they belong to. Ballet shoes. Two ballet shoes. Pink and greyed at the bottom. Sneakers worn instead of a slipper. Worn to work instead of a ball. Sugar, sugar less than a cup. More than a tablespoon. Ordinary ingredients that set off a spark. It will be done quickly before it's too late. Words said and sealed in a yellow envelope. Slipped into a mailbox and away it will go. It will know where it needs to go. Miles and miles of land between them.
This window will close soon, close without letting the breeze in. Her memory is braiding itself onto another, lost by the time she turns on her heel.
Some days she wishes her key wouldn't fit in the lock. That it would be too big or too small. Just the wrong cut to tell her that she had made a mistake. That this isn't her house. Emma sighs guiltily as she feels how easily the front door opens for her. It's just after eight on a Wednesday night. A year ago she would have been wiping her mouth with a napkin and strapping her badge to her waist. Ready for the night patrol in Storybrooke. The Bug's shift stick would have been vibrating under the palm of her hand and Emma would have been praying for something more than a cat and less than a dragon to show up for the night. Tonight it's picking up the mail from the floor while Killian patrols the streets.
The house keys clink like they always do when she drops them in the bowl. She won't take off her shoes just yet. It's part of a routine that's supposed to keep her grounded. Or at least that's what all the websites recommend. It's been two months since Henry took that bean and rode off to another world. Five months since she got married. A month and a half since she last spoke with Regina about something other than paperwork. Change is supposed to be hard, Emma reminds herself every other hour. But then she remembers how it felt to break curses and move the moon because of a change that burned in her chest. It was nothing like this dull silence. Maybe she isn't trying hard enough.
She takes her time sifting through the mail in the foyer, gets the smallest of pleasures to see her name printed in all the pieces. Emma Swan, Emma Swan, Emma Swan. Coupons from Tony's, the electric bill. A reminder to vote in local elections this November that she folds and pockets in her jacket because it has Regina's signature at the bottom. There is an unmarked yellow envelope with no return address. With enough stamps to get to Berlin.
Sheriff Emma Swan
314 Bear Close
Storybrooke, Maine
It's suspicious, she knows. Nothing could get past the town line without magic. She should call for a meeting. Killian would wave it around, wonder who it is that plans to spoil their happiness. Snow would call Regina because that's how it works now. Regina would mutter an incantation and that would be the end of it. But Emma's fingers are itching to tear it open, to have it be her secret. And only hers. She relishes the sound of the envelope tearing and greedily shakes it until its contents fall out. It's a blank postcard.
Greetings from Seattle!
Emma feels stupid examining the red and the blues of skyline. To think that this is what she was planning on guarding. She traces the lines where whoever sent this should have written a message. Stupid. Emma taps the card three times and suddenly she can't breathe anymore. Paralyzed by magic, it's like she was punched in the gut but can't double over. She can't move at all. The room has gone dark and she feels her chest on fire. All because she wanted something that was hers. Emma's eyes break into tears when she feels them. Henry. Regina. Others she doesn't recognize but feel hers. Hers and only hers . Not here. Miles and miles of land between them. It doesn't make sense but she has to go. Emma has to go. Go, go, go.
The foyer is back and she can breathe again. But the fire just keeps growing inside her chest. Emma races upstairs with the postcard still in her hand. Up to the bedroom that is neat and white and nothing like her. She finds her old duffel bag and stuffs it with whatever it is she has in her drawers. Toothbrush, tampons. Emma knows the drill, after all these years she still knows how to run. Water, pop tarts and anything that could last her weeks. All the cash she can find. Cell charger and nothing else. She hurries out the door. Doesn't bother with the keys but slips the ring off her finger because the fire in her chest demands it.
Emma carefully stashes the postcard in the glove-box as soon as she unlocks the Bug. The engine starts without a hitch and the shift stick is vibrating under the palm of her hand. She shouldn't be smiling. She is.