Accept, O Lord, our thanks and praise for all that you have done for us.
A low creak rings out in the apartment, the wood of the door frames settling for the night. Snow lights a candle, force of habit, on the kitchen counter. She fills a glass of water from the filter on the counter.
The nightmares don't come as often.
When they do, they come with a vengeance.
Fire.
Then dark.
And inevitable despair.
We thank you for the splendor of the whole of creation,
She closes her eyes, remembering the wood. The air rustling the leaves above her, the babbling of a creek beside her feet. Birds calling to each other, as she sits in the leaves, the sun warming her bit of the forest floor.
for the beauty of this world,
Her eyes open slowly to the exposed brick and cracked white paint.
She runs the tip of her finger around the rim of the glass before standing to go to the window on the other side of the loft. She reaches forward, lifting the gauzy lace to look out over Storybrooke. On the wet stretch of street below, a Plymouth Gran Fury slowly rolls by. Someone obviously coming off the late shift at the power plant. She looks up to the roofs, the chimneys, the waning moon. The clock tower's minute arm clicks forward.
It still thrills her each time it does.
It's not a castle, nor has it the vistas that she grew up with, but there's a certain peace here that she never felt in that world where her life was always threatened. This is the first time she's been finally able to breathe.
She knows that there's still a bit of Charming that wants to go back for good, but she knows.
You have to take hold of your content. Wherever, whenever you can.
for the wonder of life,
She shuffles to the nearby crib on slippered feet, not wanting to wake her son. His hands are curled at his chest, fingers twitching as he dreams. The urge to touch his rounded cheek almost has her reaching towards him, but she's also been a mother long enough to know better.
Seemingly of its own accord, her hand slips to her stomach.
She hasn't told Charming yet. With Emma and Killian and all of their...stuff, there just hasn't been the time.
For now, only she and whomever made the little twinge a moment ago knows.
She rubs her stomach lovingly.
Hello.
and for the mystery of love.
Checking on her one baby isn't enough.
At the top of the staircase, she sees the blue light dancing about Emma's room, the television running with the sound turned very low. Emma is still dressed- oversized sweater, leggings, and thick socks. Her daughter's hands are clasped in Killian's shirt, but as her eyes travel to the man's face, she notes that he's also awake.
His hand is tracing gentle patterns along Emma's spine, and she notes that his hook is on the bedside table. He lowers his head, as deferential as he can be under the circumstances. A small smile comes in answer, and she steps quietly out.
Her side of the bed is again cool when she slides in behind her husband. She wraps an arm around his middle, scooting closer to him. Though he doesn't wake, his hand wraps around hers and clasps it to his chest.
She leans her forehead between his shoulders, whispering a silent thanks.
And sleep finally takes her.