A/N: Well. This is already different than how I began it, but that's okay. I think. I haven't decided yet. So, we'll see. This starts out similar to how the show begins, but then veers off into its own direction.
Reviews would be lovely.

[insert witty disclaimer here]

Delusion's Story

It was the silence that she noticed. It was always the silence that she noticed. Always. It spoke to her, whispered terrible words. Silence told her the truth she didn't want to believe; it told her what she didn't want to know; it told her what she needed to know. It was the complete lack of noise, the total silence that worried her. She stopped for a moment, stopped everything, even breathing. She paused and just listened, checking just to make sure that it was really silence that she was hearing. It was, and panic rose in her chest. Good never followed that silence. She stood up quickly, ran up the stairs. She paused at the closed door, knowing what she would find behind it. Breathing slowly, her hand hovered before her, before the door. She never could prepare herself for what was there and what it meant. She pushed the door open, and was met with nothing. The room was empty. She found exactly what she knew she would, and it would mean exactly what she feared it would. He was gone. Again.

A boy sat on a bus. He was young, too young to be traveling alone into the city. He sat alone, absorbed in the book that lay on his lap. His eyes never strayed to his surroundings, but rather passed over every inch of each page as if looking for some minute detail. Words and pictures both combined to tell tales of fantasy and of adventure, of good and of evil, of magic and of love. It told tales of Once Upon a Time.

The boy closed the book as the bus slowed. He would be getting off here.

"That a good book?"

"This? It's more than just a book," he replied. The boy stared intently as the stranger, his eyes serious – challenging – as if he expected her to contradict him. She didn't. He held the book close before tucking it into his bag, and his eyes lingered as it left his sight.

"Boston South Station. Thank you for riding Greyhound." The boy stood at the announcement; he was nearly there. He walked through the station, eyes tracing the sea of faces between the platform and exit. He'd never seen so many faces unrecognizable to him at once. There were more people than he was used to, a lot more.

He knocked on the window of a yellow cab parked on the street, "Do you take credit cards?"

The cab dropped him off at the corner of two roads of which he didn't know the names. It struck him again how unfamiliar the city was to him, how strange it seemed. He smiled up at the building to his left: his destination. Wind cut through his coat, it wouldn't be long until he was warm again. He approached the door, shifting his eyes up to find her window; it was dark. He shrugged, pushed the door open, and walked inside, up the stairs, around the corner. The boy stood before her door, apartment 205. He raised his hand to ring the bell. No answer.

He rang again. No answer.

Again. Still nothing.

He sighed, she must not be home. The boy walked down the stairs and turned back to the street corner. He sat with his back against the building; he'd wait until she returned, never mind the cold.

There she was: blond, wearing a pink dress. That was her. His eyes followed her every moment. She walked quickly, confidently, pausing for a moment to unlock the door; she paused again, turning around. Her eyes scanned the street behind her, looking for something, for someone as if she knew someone was watching her, but her eyes never met the boy's. She shook her head and disappeared inside without another glance.

The boy stood, but didn't walk to the door; he'd wait a moment, and then follow her up.

He stood again before apartment 205. This time she answered, opening the door and shifting her gaze down: she wasn't expecting him.

Confusion wrote itself across her features, "Uh, can I help you?"

"Are you Emma Swan?" He knew the answer. Yes. This was the woman for which he was looking. Emma Swan.

"Yeah," she confirmed, "Who are you?"

"My name's Henry. I'm your son." Her eyes widened and glanced over him, searching for recognition; she hadn't been expecting that answer. She stood in the door way unmoving, staring at Henry who ducked under her arm into her home and into her life.

"Woah, hey, kid, kid, I don't have a son. Where are your parents?" She didn't call Henry by his name.

Henry looked at her and sighed, "Ten years ago, did you give up a baby for adoption?" The expression on Emma's face answered for her. "That was me."

"Give me a minute." She walked away, closing a door behind her. Henry shrugged nonchalantly: this was definitely her. There was no doubt in his mind.

The woman pushed her hair out of her face and stepped out into the cold air. She almost never found him when he was like this, she had only once before. Once out of so many times. But she had to look, had to find a way to reach him. She walked into the street, starting at every sound, hoping each time he'd be there shivering in the night. Cold she could handle: she knew what to do with cold, it was the more likely possibility she feared. She closed her eyes, that night felt different, colder. There was something different about this. Dread gathered, this wouldn't be like the other times she'd been met with that silence.

They walked through the gate, up to the house. Mother and son were side by side after ten years of separation. Emma looked up at the house wondering what exactly it was she'd find there. If the kid was right and it was as bad as described, she'd be sending him into the same life she had. Hell. Misery. Though, if the kid was right, then they were all fairy tale characters cursed by an evil queen. She stared at the house hoping it offered a better life that the one she could have given. Her eyes met a figure in the window, a figure whose gaze drifted to hers. The figure, a woman with dark hair, closed her eyes and took a deep breath before turning briskly for the door.

"Henry!" she called out, folding him into her arms. "Are you okay? Where were you? Who is this?" Her eyes focused on Emma with a confusion she was intimately familiar with. It was the same confusion Emma had met earlier that evening, the same confusion she was still holding on to.

Henry wrenched himself away. "She's my real mother." He vanished into the house without another word leaving the two strangers out in the cold.

"I'll check on Henry." Emma hadn't noticed the man standing there.

"You're Henry's birth mother?"

"Yes, Emma Swan."

"I see," she paused, "Regina Mills."

They stood there for a moment in the cold dark saying nothing. Then, "It's none of my business, but something he said –"

"He told you about the book."

"Yes, and his theory. He seemed, well, serious."

"He was serious, Ms. Swan. He was very serious."