She goes often to the Storybrooke cemetary. And when she does, it's never on a Wednesday.
Gazing down at Graham's modest gravestone, she'll find herself reliving those last few moments with him. She'll feel the warm brush of his lips over hers and the weight of his body in her arms, she'll see the tear that slides down his cheek as his eyes fill with the wonder of memories that are his once more. She'll hear his deep voice with its devastating Irish lilt.
I remember! Thank you.
Sometimes, when she brings her spray of wildflowers to his grave, splashes of color that are in such contrast to the cold, sterile white of Madam Mayor's elegant roses, she'll see the wolf. He'll stand at a distance, watching her with a stillness that she has long since ceased to find unnerving, but rather takes comfort in instead, before he turns to lope away.
She knows that he mourns Graham as much as she does; they are the kindred spirits of his death.
When she finally turns to go, after brushing gentle fingers over his headstone one more time, the sadness she comes away with leaves her feeling heavy, as always. The grief is close, but her confusion is closer still, because she doesn't understand.
Wasn't she supposed to bring back the happy endings?