"You know what the problem is with this world? Everyone wants some magical solution for their problem and yet everyone refuses to believe in magic."
Jefferson looked down at the scissors he was gripping. He'd been holding them for so long there was a red line forming on the back of his thumb where the handle pressed into his skin. He dropped the scissors and they hit the tiled kitchen floor with a clatter, the light from the window reflecting on the metal and bouncing rays of sunlight around the room.
Standing up and pushing his chair back with his foot, he leaned on the table and looked at his finished work. Picking up the hat, he stared at it critically and then chucked it over his shoulder.
"Nothing. Not one ounce of anything. No magic, no power, no portal, no home."
So his newly-made hat was merely left in the cupboard to collect dust, along with the thirty-one others he'd made that year.
The house was empty, as usual, as always. He often found himself wandering around aimlessly, glancing at empty photo frames, tripping on the fold in the carpet under the arch where the ends didn't quite meet. Not a living soul in sight, ever. He used to have mirrors before he couldn't bear the idea of someone watching him, so the mirrors lived with the rejected, useless hats. He hated seeing himself. Seeing what he'd become.
If anyone ever came to visit, they'd find a pretty weird house. The middle of the forest, right on the Storybrooke border. Not like he'd get any visitors anyway.
He headed out, walking the entire way into the main town. He started to jog but decided he wasn't quite dressed right for it. Besides, the jogging made him hot, but he was still wearing a scarf. Can't have the neighbours wondering about what happened to the crazy man.
Storybrooke was silent when Jefferson arrived, the streets lined with eerie quiet and schoolboys' litter. Glancing at the bronze pocket watch he kept on him at all times, he relaxed slightly. He was early.
Seeing as he had approximately seven minutes and forty-five seconds to spare, he strolled down to the newsagents, and bought a newspaper. Flicking through it, he knew it was all a joke. World news.
Who needs to learn about the rest of the world when nobody leaves this town, anyway?
The sea looked a little rough. He spotted a sailing boat struggling to stay upright in the wind, and at least three people rushing about frantically on the small deck.
It made him a little sad. The border restriction even worked on the sea. Many a boat has gone too far and crossed the invisible line, and many a boat has been reported mysteriously disappeared.
It's been happening for twenty-eight years. Then again, everything in Storybrooke has been happening for twenty-eight years.
Pulling himself away from the sea, Jefferson once again checked his watch and found himself rushing to get there on time. He'd spent too much time at the harbour.
What if I've missed her?
He skidded to a halt in front on the bench and sat down, reopening the newspaper that had been crushed in his fist. Just in time. Peering over the top, he then watched her leaving the school, laughing with friends, happy, alive.
She looked happy. She was alive. Of course.
Every day he got down there and every day he sat on that bench and every day he watched her leaving the school gates and getting on the bus and every day she was happy.
Every day.
Jefferson wouldn't stop looking out for his little Grace. Never ever. Not even when the clock ticked, not even when the curse broke.
The shock, naturally, came when he walked back into the main square.
And the clock ticked.