It took almost three weeks for Emma and Henry to settle into their new home in Storybrooke. The house that Emma had been able to purchase for them was much larger than their apartment in Boston had been, and as such, even with the new purchases she'd made, it still felt a little empty. Emma was relieved when she got the call that an engineer was on the way to finally connect her broadband because she knew that she'd be able to finish furnishing the place much cheaper online than she could at the one small furniture store in town.

Thankfully, Henry appeared to be settling in well at his new school. Being the new kid had seemed a little daunting at first, especially in a town that hadn't seen many newcomers in recent years. But Emma assumed that the spring in her son's steps as he returned home every day was a good sign, even if he wasn't yet talking animatedly about one or two people like he'd done in Boston.

Work had proven to be an interesting change of pace so far. While Emma felt like she was never really off the clock, Storybrooke was such a sleepy little town that she always made it home in time for Henry's return from school, and she hadn't missed dinner with her son yet. Unfortunately, that had also shone a light on just how woeful her cookery skills were. She'd promised herself that when the engineers had finished, and she could finally connect her laptop to the internet, she would download a few easy-looking recipes to begin working on improving her skills.

When Henry came bounding through the door late that Friday afternoon, there seemed to be an added bounce to his step that hadn't been present before.

"Hey, Kid. How was school?" Emma called over her shoulder.

"It was okay," came Henry's standard reply, as he shucked out of his jacket and hung his bag over the back of one of the seats around the small kitchen table. "Is the internet working now?" he asked.

Emma froze at the stovetop for a moment and then turned to face her son. "I don't know. I haven't checked it yet. Why? Do you need it for your homework?"

"Nope. I was just hoping we could check Instagram," he said, "In case anyone found my balloon. You said you couldn't get great coverage out here for the internet on your phone, so I was hoping with it in the house, that would make things better."

Emma chuckled a little as she gave the pasta dish on the stove a quick stir to stop it from sticking.

"My phone's on the counter, and the engineer left all the details on the coffee table," she explained, nodding her head in each direction as Henry hopped off his chair and grabbed up everything he would need.

While she continued the occasional stir of their dinner, Henry set about the process of connecting his mother's phone to their new WIFI router. Naturally, it took him less time to achieve his goal than it did for Emma to deem their meal edible and begin the process of plating it up. By the time she took her seat opposite her son, Henry had already pulled up his mother's Instagram account and had set her phone down just beside her fork.

"You do know there's a big chance nobody found it, right?" she warned, because the last thing Emma wanted to do was disappoint her son.

"I know, Mom."

"And you know that even if they did, there's no guarantee this person would use social media or even bother to get in touch," she continued.

"Yes, Mom."

Emma was pretty sure she saw her son roll his eyes at her words, but she chose not to call him out for it and, instead, began scrolling through Instagram for the first time in weeks.

Apparently, a lot of her old acquaintances in Boston had achieved plenty since she'd moved away, but Emma suspected most of the images on her feed had actually been staged for likes. It was why she refused to let Henry have his own account. She didn't want her son growing up believing that what he saw on Instagram was real and hating his own life for not living up to those expectations.

When she was bored of the repetitive boasting posts, Emma navigated to her direct messages, expecting to see nothing. The four requests waiting for her attention surprised her. Her face must have reflected that as Henry dropped his fork into the bowl with a loud clang and hurried round to her side of the table.

"What? What is it?" he demanded.

"Nothing. I just wasn't expecting to see as many requests waiting for me," she explained, before quickly adding, "But don't get your hopes up, Kid. They're likely all spam."

Henry gave his mother a withering look as he continued to stand patiently beside her, waiting for her to open each one. The first contained a link to 'bargain' Ray-Bans that Emma quickly deleted. The second was from an account professing to be the private account of a celebrity she followed, who wanted to reach out and thank his fans. Emma deleted that one too.

"Why'd you do that?" Henry asked, frowning at his mother in confusion.

"It wasn't the real Patrick Dempsey. It was just somebody pretending to be him."

"Why would anyone do that?" Henry pressed.

"Because there are some strange people on the internet," Emma chuckled. "It's why you're not allowed on here for another couple of years."

Henry rolled his eyes at his mother's reminder as she clicked on the next message waiting and then quickly deleted that too.

"What are nudes?" he asked, as Emma loudly protested, "Nothing! They're nothing! Nothing you need to know about! Nothing at all! Strange people. Internet's full of them."

With a fair amount of reluctance, Emma clicked to open the last message and her eyes widened with surprise at what she saw. Next to her, Henry had fallen completely silent.

The thread began with a picture of Henry's deflated balloon. His handwritten wish list was a little battered but still firmly attached to it. The sender had also included a short message of his own, writing:

Hi Henry,

Your birthday wish list made it all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Did you get your puppy?

Best Wishes,

Killian Jones.

"Where's Nova Scotia?" Henry finally asked, whispering his question down to the screen.

"Canada," Emma chuckled. "Your balloon made it to Canada, Kid."

"Can we write him back?" Henry asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Can we, Mom, can we?"

Emma hesitated for just a moment before hitting the accept button on her screen. Then she handed the phone to her son.

"I wanna see your message before you hit send," she warned, and Henry nodded his agreement as he took the device from her hand.

For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the clink of Emma's fork against the sides of her bowl, and the faint tap of Henry's fingers against her phone.

"How's this?" he finally asked, holding the device out for his mother to take so that she could read over what he'd written.

Hi Killian.

It's so cool that the balloon made it all that way. We sent it from Boston, but we live in Maine now. Mom says Nova Scotia is a part of Canada. Is it very different from America?

I didn't get my puppy. Mom used to say the apartment was too small for one, but maybe now we've moved, she'll let me have one for Christmas.

What did you get for your birthday?

From,

Henry.

"Looks good, kid," she told him, before hitting send and setting her phone back down onto the table. "Your dinner's getting cold," she reminded him, when Henry continued to linger by her side, staring expectantly at the device.

"You'll tell me if he writes back, won't you?" he asked, dragging his feet around the table to take a seat once again.

"The moment he replies, I'll let you know."

Emma's promise seemed to lift Henry's spirits a little as her son went to bed that evening brimming with happiness at the possibility of finally making a new friend.

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