''Storybrooke?''

The skepticism must have echoed clearly through the single word, for Amanda pursed her lips and nodded. ''It's quite cute, actually. I only saw a few pictures that Mr. Gold – that's who you'll be staying with – sent me. It's by the coast, and very picturesque.''

''Picturesque?'' Emma sighed, shaking her head. ''Does it have an airport?''

''No.''

''Train?''

''No.''

''Bus system?''

''...possibly.''

The plane gave a shudder as it gained altitude, and Emma directed her attention back to the crossword puzzle in her lap – a gift from Amanda at a small airport gift shop. The flight to Boston was only two and a half hours but Emma had the feeling that the quieter she was during that time, the better of a mood Amanda would be in.

The mysterious Mr. Gold had apparently given concise directions to his rather remote mansion – only a short walk out of town, Amanda had relayed to Emma – and was to be waiting up for them when they arrived late that night. It wasn't the first time that Emma had lived with no other children, but it was the first time that only one person had wanted to take her in – usually it was couples looking to fill a void or do something good for the world. This Mr. Gold appeared to have no ulterior motives, and no reason for needing a mere meal ticket: he was rich, owned a small antique store in an even smaller town, and simply wanted to open a bedroom to a teenaged girl with nowhere else to go. That kind of charity was rare, in Emma's experience, and she couldn't help but wonder just why he was doing it.

It was entirely possible that Emma would be horrified by the small town. The only experience she had with them was via movies and television shows, never real life, and she couldn't imagine successfully flying very far under the radar in a town with less than a thousand people, whose local rich guy had just basically adopted her.

Though life hadn't exactly thrown her a lot of good, there was still a tiny part of Emma that was holding out hope – maybe this one would be it. Maybe she'd be able to stay for two years, happy, until her eighteenth birthday. Maybe she would never have to leave for another room, or another state, again. It was a nice thought.

Emma closed her eyes, the plane's engine lulling her into a doze, and allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like to truly live somewhere.

They landed in Boston amidst a rather intense thunderstorm, and Emma was still jittery, even nearly an hour and a half after collecting her backpack, which was currently seated next to her in the backseat of a rented car.

Amanda hummed softly to the oldies station playing, and Emma stared out at the rainy, dismal scenery that made up the forest of Maine. They were long since out of Boston and each town they passed through seemed to get smaller and smaller, until the only things they were passing were random houses and more trees than Emma had ever seen in her life.

''How long of a drive is it?''

''Five hours,'' was the clipped reply, and Emma hunkered down in her seat, sighing. Four and half more to go. Storybrooke had better have something for her.

Storybrooke

''He's still out, Miss Blanchard.''

''Thank you, doctor Whale.''

Mary Margaret didn't come to the hospital weekly. It was all very sporadic – the need for volunteers increased and decreased with time, but as they entered into June, Whale had put the word out again, and of course Mary Margaret was first on the list of willing helpers.

Although volunteering gave her a good sense of accomplishment, especially doing so in a place where so much darkness was held, she would be lying if she said there weren't ulterior motives.

Or motive, rather. One motive, lying prone in the bed as he had been for as long as anyone could remember. The John Doe of Storybrooke, pale and wan, but still handsome, hooked up to machines whose rhythms never faltered, as his heart rate never wavered, nor his brain activity.

John Doe was in a coma. A deep, deep coma, from which it seemed nothing would wake him. As far as Mary Margaret knew, no one came to visit him, and so she couldn't imagine why Whale hadn't made the executive decision and pulled the plug, so to speak, but she was glad he hadn't, for reasons she could not quite pinpoint.

Each time she was at the hospital, without fail, she was in his room for at least half an hour, sitting in the chair she pulled up by the bed, and reading something of a bedtime story to him. John Doe never responded, but it hadn't yet stopped her from coming in. Her literature of choice varied – sometimes it was some old Russian tome, others it was simply Austen or Bronte, or even poetry. It all depended on her mood. This was a Bronte kind of day. Jane Eyre had sat on her bookshelf for months, untouched, until earlier that afternoon when she had tucked it into her bag on a whim just before her departure for the hospital.

''I used to love this book, I think,'' Mary Margaret spoke quietly, tracing a finger over the cover as she pulled a chair near the bed and sat down. ''When I was younger...middle school, maybe.''

The only sounds came from the deep breathing of the man in the bed and the occasional soft beep of machines.

And so Mary Margaret read. It was a quarter to ten when Dr. Whale poked his head into the room, informing her that visiting hours were over and she had to wrap it up in five minutes – strictly, visiting hours had been over since nine, but Whale had a soft spot for her. Or, at least, her figure. With Whale it was hard to tell.

''I'll come back soon,'' she promised the man in the bed, neatly bookmarking the page she was on and tucking the book back into her bag. ''A few weeks, maybe. I wonder if you can hear me at all...''

Sighing, Mary Margaret reached out to brush the top of his cool hand, and was just about to turn around and scoot the chair back to the corner when she distinctly felt the man's hand shift, moving so that his hand was loosely covering hers.

''I will always find you, Snow.''

The image of a man dressed in medieval clothing flashed across her mind, and Mary Margaret felt her stomach lurch a little – Snow. The man's face had been blurred, but he was so familiar...

''Oh my – Dr. Whale!''

She hadn't meant to shriek quite so loudly, but her heart was pounding, and her eyes scanning the face of the man, who hadn't moved anything else, though his hand still rested on top of hers.

''He – he moved,'' she said aloud, testing the words out. This man, who had been lying here for years, probably before even Mary Margaret had moved here – god, how long ago had that been? - had just moved his entire hand.

''Mary Margaret?!''

Whale came through the door and skidded to a halt, eyes wide. ''I heard you scream,'' he said warily, clearly confused as to why there was no apparent life threatening occurring within the small room.

''Doctor, he moved his hand.''

A moment's pause filled the room. Whale arched a brow. ''Mary Margaret, this man is comatose.''

''I know it sounds insane,'' she hastened to assure him, shaking her head and looking back down at the bed, ''but I swear – look, his hand's over mine. I touched his hand and he moved.''

Whale made a small humming sound, and began looking over the various screens. Mary Margaret bit her lip, gently twitching her hand, and feeling her heart sink when she moved it from beneath the man's, and nothing happened.

''Sorry, Mary Margaret,'' Whale said, sounding almost truly apologetic, ''but there's nothing here.''

''That's okay. It was probably just me – I'm a bit tired, I should go home.''

''Yes,'' Whale agreed, turning off the overhead light and opening the door to the room, ''get some rest. We'll see you in a couple weeks.''

Shouldering her bag, Mary Margaret followed him from the room, glancing back only once as she crossed through the doorway. The room was dimly lit now, and the man still rested peacefully against the pillows.

Just a trick of the mind, she supposed. Who 'Snow' was, and why the name sounded so...right, Mary Margaret didn't know, but the man's blurred face haunted her the entire way home, and in her strange, nonsensical dreams all night.