The bell signaling the end of the school day rang out shrilly, and eleven elementary school students stood up quickly, shoving books and coloring pages into backpacks, talking animatedly amongst one another.
Mary Margaret Blanchard leaned against her desk, surveying her classroom with a smile. ''Remember, guys – I want you to start thinking about your poems. Think of something that makes you happy, and just immerse yourself in the writing.''
A few of the kids nodded, and waved their goodbyes, loud voices carrying into the hall where the rest of the school was getting ready to leave. The door closed behind little Paige, who called out a happy "see you Monday, Miss Blanchard!'' at Mary Margaret, who was stacking a thin pile of papers into a folder to take home and grade.
A small smile played at her lips as she skimmed over the top essay – the topic had been favorite pets, and her kids' essays were almost always a treat to read – before tucking the folder into her purse, and shrugging her sweater on. The weather outside was mild, as was always the case in Storybrooke, so she hadn't bothered with a coat.
Locking the door behind her, Mary Margaret set off through the now nearly empty halls of the school, emerging into the tepid air outside and taking off a leisurely pace towards her apartment, only a ten minute walk away, as was almost everything in Storybrooke.
She couldn't really say what had drawn her to this town; a combination of circumstance and old habits, she supposed. Hazy memories floated to her of summers spent in a small town, and...well, how did the saying go? 'You could take the girl out of the small town but you can't take the small town out of the girl'? Yes, that was it. Cliché, but it brought a smile to her lips nonetheless.
Yes, life in Storybrooke was pleasant enough. The people were friendly, with a few exceptions, and Mary Margaret had her routine, which carried her through life easily enough. She woke every morning, stopped into Granny's for her now well-known order of hot chocolate (with cinnamon, always cinnamon), taught her beloved class at the school, and left the school at three each day, waving hello to a few faces on her walk, before arriving home and cooking dinner for one, and retiring to bed early.
Not the most exciting, she supposed, but it was nice. Quiet, predictable, and safe. All things Mary Margaret valued in life. There was little doubt that Storybrooke was where she was meant to be, at least for now, and that was the thought that comforted her whenever the wanderlust hit her out of nowhere, a strange longing for something she couldn't quite put her finger on, as if she were wishing for somewhere she had been long ago.
Regardless, it was where she was, and as she unlocked the door the apartment, Mary Margaret trained her thoughts to more everyday topics – there was chicken in the freezer, but should she cook it, or splurge for a pizza...