It is a sickeningly bright day, the kind that had Mr. Gold cringing even long before he's been reduced to the form of a translucent ghost striding up and down the dusty old floors of what once used to be his shop. The kind of warm, joyous weather that would have the good people of Storybrooke leave the comfort of their own homes and venture out into the streets. And, even worse so, dare enter his pawnshop in search of knick-knacks to be gifted or done away with, irritating him in the process. Yes, Mr. Gold has always hated such days with ardour, and it is possibly the sole consolation that he is now marooned inside a stifling old building, bound for eternity to his former shop with only his own unpleasant disposition for company. Because the sun never gets inside through the closed shutters, and the merry voices ringing outside barely make leeway to his ears. And, most importantly, the front door of the shop stays firmly closed. If his calculations are correct, it has been locked and bolted for a hundred and fifty nine years. And now it is locked no longer.
In its place stands a blinding rectangular spot of light, and Gold curses under his nonexistent breath as his eyes, or whatever it is that grants him vision these days, try in vain to adjust to it. Playful rays of sunshine fall from the open door and attack his wood-boards, tracing chaotic patterns and exposing him to the effects of not having the floors swiped in over a hundred years. The place is positively filthy. A vague feeling of guilt comes over him, but then again he supposes neglect is bound to happen when an unidentified man comes in and murders you cold in your own shop. It is when Gold starts nursing uncouth thoughts towards his murderer that the rectangular spot of light first speaks.
"Thank you again for the keys, Madam Mayor. This would be all for now, I think."
The voice is female, with an accent that makes Gold's temples pound and a joviality that, had he still bones, would have them rattle against each other. So the mayor in office is responsible for disturbing his peace and bringing the voice into his...
Oh.
But this isn't his shop any longer, is it? It is his current home, but he'd lost all claim on it years ago. When he died. Since then, it has been the place he haunted and nothing more. He'd be angry at the epiphany if he wouldn't be so damned tired.
Eventually, the bright light recedes to a manageable nuisance and the contour of a wee body forms itself in the door frame. A slip of a woman. Dressed in her unmentionables, if Gold is to judge by the length of her skirts. She'd be even more petite if it weren't for the ridiculous shoes she's wearing. Put together, they would probably stand as tall as his former walking stick, for goodness' sake!
The heels walk inside and sneeze, brown curls tumbling in the sun rays, and why isn't she closing that damned door already? More people might walk in if she doesn't, and then he would be thoroughly displeased.
"Well, this is definitely going to take a little longer than I expected," the little thing mumbles to herself as she takes a good look around the shop. Mr. Gold suddenly feels all the weight and tightness of the suit he'd been buried in. It is as if he is standing for her close inspection himself. It's preposterous, but without much thinking, he joins her gaze and cringes when he takes it all in, seemingly for the first time in the many years he's spent as the dormant beast of this castle. It's a ruin. There are several wooden boxes that he knows contain first editions piled up against a wall and blocking the access to the back room. He meant to sort through them the day that he... Well, no point in thinking about it now. Most of them are certainly damaged beyond repair. He takes stock of the porcelains that have managed to escape the several earthquakes and his ghost temper tantrums in between, when suddenly his contemplation is broken by a flurry of motion to his left.
"Well, let's try opening these and let some light in."
Who is she even talking to? It's not enough that his pawnshop is lost to him forever, but the keys have been handed to a lunatic.
Soon enough all windows are bared and Gold curses as new waves of nauseating light blind him momentarily. By the time he regains his sight, the girl is staying in the middle of his shop, gazing longingly, a dumb smile on her face. Beautiful face, he reckons, but a lunatic nonetheless. She seems comfortable here, and that throws him off most of all, because comfortable is something he has never truly been. Not in his shop, not in his home, not in his own skin. Only as a God forsaken ghost in this God forsaken place had he managed to find something vaguely resembling peace, and he'll be damned if he'll stand back and have it taken away from him. He had lost so much, he will not lose this too. The girl is a danger to him, and he will do everything in his power to send her away for good, including putting his scary ghost act together once more. And maybe once she'll be gone, he will finally find his peace.