Larsen casts a resigned look at the backpack, and Neal shoots him one in return that says, Hey, I came and I wore a suit, okay? Take what you can get.

And Larsen sighs in resignation and then nods his head in dismissal. Neal's free to go.

He loosens the tie the second he's in the elevator, and takes a deep breath the moment he's outside, exhaling three hours of tedium. He hates meetings. Larsen swears that if you do them regularly enough, you develop a tolerance. Your brain numbs to the point where you can just sit there and nod pleasantly at the idiot client for hours until he finally shuts up and signs the contract.

A sign of adulthood, Larsen calls it.

"Cassidy, you got to stop living in Neverland!" he'd yelled once, when Neal had first started working for him five years ago. And Neal had just managed to stifle a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

They'd reached détente fairly quickly, though. Largely because Neal was very, very good at the job. And because he'd accept far less money than other very, very good people in exchange for largely being left alone.

"I can hack into their system from home in hoodie," he'd explained to Larsen. "And I can build them a better one the same way. Why do I have to hike in here every morning in a suit?"

He'd won in the end, and now human resources lists Neal Cassidy, Data Security Analyst, as having a "flexible working arrangement" with the company. They probably use him as a case study for those work-life surveys, too.

Once in a while, like today, they drag him in to parade him in front of some big deal would-be client. But for the most part, they do leave him alone, which is how he wants it.

It isn't that he doesn't like people. He's always up for a laugh or a joke, and the Starbucks barista, the supermarket checkout clerk, the pizza delivery guy, the bartender down the street … any of his casual acquaintances would be quick to label him a great guy.

And it isn't that he doesn't want real relationships. Far from it. He sees a man with an arm around his girlfriend, or pushing a stroller onto the subway, or just out for a beer with his good buddies – and he feels almost sick with how much he wants to be that guy.

But when you get close to people, they want to know you. Or … maybe not know you. (There'd been exactly one person in this world who'd ever really wanted to know him.) No, people generally want to know a whole series of facts about you.

Where were you born? Parents still together? Sisters? Brothers? Favorite family vacation spot? Favorite Christmas memory? Favorite childhood memory? Where did you take swimming lessons as a kid? Where did you go to high school? How about college?

In Neal's case, all the answers are made up. And it isn't that he's afraid he'll get caught. He has his stories down – and had spent enough years as a small-time conman to sell them. No, he's just gotten to the point where he can't take continuously lying to people who are being genuine with him.

The sad fact, he thinks as he lets himself into his apartment, is that it's been nearly twelve years since he's had someone who really mattered in his life.

His eyes go to bright yellow dream-catcher automatically. It's near the window, which is how he notices that it's somehow pouring, despite the fact that he was outside seconds ago and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

But he'd left the window open this morning, so of course it's now raining. And of course the window is stuck. And of course as he attempts to unstick said window his phone slips out of his hand and lands on the fire escape three stories below.

This is how Neal's life works. He's actually reflecting that the only unsurprising part about today is the phone didn't land in the dumpster under the fire escape, forcing him to go diving … when a pigeon lands on the window sill.

And it doesn't flutter inside to look for food or to shit all over Neal and/or his furniture, which is what he half expects.

It just drops off a postcard and takes back off into the rain.

Neal reaches for the card slowly. It's a dull bluish-gray with a red-brown clock tower. Its message – "Greetings From Storybrooke" – appears to have been done in several variations of Word Art. It looks, in short, to be the work of the world's worst tourism bureau.

But, Neal supposes, it's not like they would have actually wanted visitors, let alone been advertising for them.

He gulps as he turns the card over. There's no name, no return address, but, of course, he knows who it's from. The note is rather to-the-point. Broken.

He's three beers in before he remembers the phone, and goes after it more for a mental break than for anything else. He's hardly the check-your-e-mail-every-five-minutes type. And Tamara, the woman he's somehow found himself dating recently, is the only person who ever really calls him – and she has his home number, too.

After almost killing himself several times on the slick, rain-soaked fire escape, he and the equally-drenched phone are back in the apartment. The phone gets a paper towel. He gets a real one, another beer, and the left-over slices from last night's pizza delivery.

Then he goes back to staring at the postcard.

So … it's over. Done. Emma's probably off somewhere having a real dinner (he spares a glance at the slightly stale pizza) with her parents. Parents who love her and who have been waiting twenty-eight years to get her back.

That's probably what's happening.

But …

Neal sighs. One of the things he and Emma had had in common, one of the reasons they connected so quickly – and one of the reasons why what he did to her is absolutely unforgiveable – is that they both tended to get screwed. Completely and utterly fucked over by life.

He sends some dark thoughts August's way. Would it have killed the man to elaborate a little? Even an "Emma happy" or "Emma good" would have been sufficient.

Of course, August would have thought that was unnecessary. Because August assumes Neal's planning to charge up to Storybrooke the second he receives the card and throw himself as Emma's feet, sputtering out apology and explanation. And August assumes that Emma will accept all this at once – betrayal, jail time, eleven-plus years separation be damned – and go riding off with Neal into the sunset.

Neal snorts bitterly into his beer. Maybe August was the best suited to get Emma to believe in fairy tales.

So, ex-nay on the puppet's plan. What's Neal's?

Does he even need to do anything? August knows why he left and where he is. August can tell Emma the first part – and then, if she has any interest in seeing Neal, August can tell her where to find him …

Except, no, that's not fair. Neal got screwed, but not as much as Emma did. He didn't spend any time behind bars and he at least knew what he was sacrificing for.

So, no, he can't pull the "ball's in your court" bit here.

Especially because the odds are really good that Emma will get the explanation and check off one big question mark about her life – but also decide she has no interest in ever seeing Neal again. And as August doesn't exactly strike Neal as the thoughtful type, he can't really expect a follow up card telling him all this, but assuring him that Emma's happy.

And that's the biggest thing. All he has is August's word that Emma breaking the curse automatically means getting her family and her happy ending. And after finding out that August was turning to wood, after finding out who he is … well, Neal can't just rely on the man's word. He owes it to Emma to make sure she's happy.

And he owes it to her to do so without coming back into her life, without her knowing he's anywhere around, without forcing her to relive any painful memories.

Right. So he's going to Storybrooke. But quietly. Hopefully in and out within a day. If he sees Emma (he gulps again) it will be from a distance. And she won't see him.