Ophelia's notepad flew across the room, knocking the blinking digital clock on the bedside table from its place and slamming into the wall. She cursed at the top of her lungs, not caring who heard. Ripping her shirt over her head, she stalked over to the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room and glared down at her torso. Small circular scars dotted her chest, stomach, and arms clustering around one gruesomely obvious scar that ran down the center of her stomach. Each morning she would arise only to stand before the mirror and wrack her brain for the origin of these ugly scars. Will insisted that they merely resembled freckles, but Ophelia was not satisfied. It was an infuriating undertaking.

"Everything okay up there?" Alana called to her from the bottom of the stairs. She had turned her attic into a makeshift loft for Ophelia; her only other bedroom was occupied by Will and his caravan of dogs. Ophelia had thought of suggesting they share a room, but she decided against it.

"Fine!" Ophelia called back, her voice much snappier and harsher than she had intended.

She was met with silence. Ophelia could not say she blamed Will and Alana for keeping their distance; her condition had thrown her into a dark mood, and it had only worsened since Hannibal's visit days before. Something about his presence had made her desperate to regain whatever memories she had left behind in the crash. Will and Alana begged to differ, however. Will seemed to feel quite passionately about it; he nearly had to leave the room every time Ophelia brought up the murky events of her past. Alana was much better at handling the topic.

Ophelia knew, thanks to Alana, that her father was dead. He had died in the crash. She had finished her dance training in school, and had been planning on moving to New York City to pursue her lifelong dream of dancing professionally. That much was not surprising, and Ophelia had been pleased when Alana filled in this bit of information. But that was where Alana's wealth of information had run out. She did not, or could not, answer any questions about anything but the fate of Ophelia's father which, oddly enough, did not make her feel much of anything. All Ophelia truly remembered of her father was a strong dislike for him.

So Ophelia had decided to strike out on her own, venturing into the dark abyss of her memory. Her notepad full of ideas was as far as she had gotten, though, and it was beginning to become quite depressing. She lashed out, full of frustration, whenever she hit a wall in her mind. And she seemed to be hitting walls quite often.

She yanked her shirt back over her head, sending little pieces of hair flying out in every direction atop her head. With a huff, she crossed the room and grabbed her notepad, slamming it shut. Leaving the lights on behind her, Ophelia shrugged on her favorite sweater and shut the door.

"I'm going out," Ophelia called to Will as she descended the stairs. He sat on the living room floor brushing a mat out of Winston's creamy coat. For a moment, Ophelia paused, watching him. Will was so entirely, lovingly, focused on the dog that he did not notice her standing there. Ophelia's heart was warmed and her demeanor was softened; there was something about Will Graham that she could not place, something that made her feel a fierce warmth within her whenever she looked at him. He was just a man, just a teacher. As far as she knew, she had only known him for the time that she had lived with Alana. But something deep within her said that Will Graham was a good man. Will Graham was a man that deserved the world. Not knowing him when she felt as if she should was one of the most painful things that Ophelia had experienced during her time in Baltimore.

He finally looked up from Winston to gaze up at Ophelia, his eyes wary and his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, "Are you going somewhere?"

"Out," Ophelia repeated, much more softly now, "Just need some air."

"Do you," Will stumbled to his feet, adjusting his glasses and patting Winston on the head, "have a jacket? Need some company?" His eyes grew sad as he took in Ophelia's face, from the dark circles under her eyes to the chapped skin of her lips. Though her body was recovering from their stint in England, her mind was still deteriorating. He had come to care for her so; he only wished he could stop it.

Ophelia shook her head, "I won't be gone long. Probably just grab some coffee and come right back. It's not like I have anywhere else to go." She forced a single, barking laugh. Her face reddened.

"Taking the bus, then?" Will shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking from one foot to the other. He longed to pull her into an embrace, to comfort her. But he did not know how.

Ophelia nodded.

"Okay," Will stayed beside Winston, who stared up at his human companion, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Ophelia hesitated for just a moment before hurrying from the house. Will stared after her, his jaw clenched and his hand patting absentmindedly at the top of Winston's head.

The fall air was full of bite that afternoon, more so than in previous days. Almost all the leaves had abandoned their branches, and nearly all of the wildlife one would expect to see in such a rural area were absent. It was a short walk down a deserted road to the bus stop, which was made up of a single rusty sign and two leaf-covered benches. Ophelia sat down on one, clutching her bag and her notepad to her chest, as if they were the glue keeping her from falling to pieces on the sidewalk.

The bus arrived just as Ophelia's fingers were beginning to go numb. She shelled out a handful of change to the disgruntled driver, then waddled down the aisle to the far end of the bus, finally settling down at a window seat at the very back. The only other person on the bus appeared to be asleep, his great, bulking frame leaning against the window on his side of the aisle.

Ophelia couldn't help but study the man as the bus started into town. He was covered almost entirely in tattoos of every shape and size. His bald head reflected the grey autumn light that streamed through the windows, though his enormous shoulders almost entirely blocked it out. A back brace and a roll of medical bandages sat on the seat next to him. Ophelia wondered what their purpose was.

He looked like the type of man that led an interesting life. She wondered what his name was, what his job was. Did he have pets? Friends? And why was he on this bus?

The only sound that accompanied them on the short ride back into town was the sound of some foreign language blaring over the radio at the front of the bus. The driver seemed enraptured. Ophelia wondered how the loud broadcast had not awoken the tattooed man. When the bus pulled up to the stop at the center of town, Ophelia stood, her eyes on the back of the man's head. He still had not stirred. She thought it wise to wake him, just in case he had missed his stop.

"Sir?" Ophelia's hand seemed minuscule on his enormous shoulder.

He sat up languidly, as if still asleep, "Well hello there, darlin'. What can I do for ya' today?"

"Um," Ophelia tugged a the strap of her bag, "nothing, nothing. You were just... asleep. I thought I should wake you. Don't want to miss your stop, right?" The way his eyes scanned her face made her insides squirm. He leaned toward her ever so slightly, his fingers drumming together on his lap.

"What's your name?" his eyes narrowed, but his mouth pulled into a toothy grin. His left incisor was golden.

"Ophelia," she muttered, "But, um, I have to get off now. I just... wanted to help." She felt her skin crawling.

"Nice to meet you, Ophelia," the man continued to grin at her as she scurried from the bus, still clutching her notepad and purse as tightly as she could.

Out in the crisp air, after the bus had departed, Ophelia felt much better. Though she did not know the area, she was quite keen to simply stroll along until she found a place to stop and think.

She started down the sidewalk with no particular direction, simply listening to the rhythm of her shoes slapping against the concrete. She smiled at people she passed, wondering if she had ever known them or if she would like to. The wind whipped her hair around her face and ruffled the pages of her notepad, singing around corners and into the opening and closing doors of shops. She followed the wind, letting it push her along.

Soon, though, she decided she was far too chilly to carry on for much longer, so she ducked out of the gale and into a small coffee shop, whose windows were covered with festive decorations.

"Ophelia!" a voice rang out the moment the door closed behind her. A small, dark-skinned woman flew toward her, arms outstretched, "Where have you been? Haven't seen you around in ages!"

"I, uh," Ophelia looked down at the woman, whose head only came to her shoulder.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," the woman took Ophelia by the hand and led her to a table by the window, "What does matter is that my favorite customer is back where she's supposed to be. The usual? Any snacks? Where's your friend?"

"S-sure," Ophelia nodded, perching uncomfortably on the edge of her chair, "My friend?"

"Mister tall, dark, and handsome," the woman put her hands on her hips, quite animated for her small size, "That man you're always here with. Or you were before you disappeared on me..."

Ophelia knew not what to say, "I- I really don't know, to be honest."

The woman shrugged, "Still, I'm just happy you're back." She bustled away, weaving between tables.

The cafe itself was quite a quirky little place; Ophelia was proud of herself for apparently having picking it out in the past. All of the tables and chairs were mismatched, as if the owner had simply gathered whatever furniture they could find. Some tables were round, some were square. Some were wood, and some were made of colorful stained glass. The chairs were equally as diverse, ranging from small rocking chairs to curved love seats. Ophelia sat at a small round table made of wrought iron in a plush chair covered in small appliqué flowers.

Ophelia gazed out the window, watching the bustling activity pass by. A child swung between her mother and father, who both carried cups of steaming cider in their free hands. A few men in suits hurried by, and then a small pod of bicyclists.

Across the street, two silhouettes moved behind a closed curtain. One was tall, statuesque. It stood beside what looked to be a large armchair. The other more plump figure paced back and forth in front of the window; his outline was much more defined. Once, he peered through the curtains, his eyes darting up and down the street, as if he were hiding from someone. His eyes met Ophelia's for a moment, then he disappeared behind the curtain again.

Ophelia couldn't help but snort to herself at the quirkiness of the small pig-like man. She looked down at her notepad, wondering if she should write about the funny sight. As she started to describe the man next to a small doodle of Winston, a steaming cup of coffee appeared before her.

"Thanks," Ophelia smiled up at the woman who, in turn, beamed down at her.

"So you missed a lot when you fell off the planet, miss Ophelia," the woman put her hands on her hips, mock scolding, "I'm co-manager now. You're looking at a boss."

She did not know why, but her heart swelled and her face snapped into a genuine grin, "That's fantastic!"

"I know! Charles said that-"

"Maria!" a male voice, who Ophelia assumed could only belong to Charles, boomed over the clinking of mugs and silverware, "Got things to do back here." Ophelia quickly jotted Maria down onto her notepad.

"Sorry," she dipped into a nervous mock-curtsy, "See you, Ophelia. But, oh, look, there's your friend. He'll just have to keep you occupied while I co-manage." She hurried off, and Ophelia's head snapped to where Maria had pointed.

Hannibal stood on the curb with the small piggy-man, patting him gingerly on the shoulder, as if his clean suit would be soiled with too much contact. A smile played at the corners of Ophelia's mouth as she watched him, watched his thought process fluctuate from disgust to relief as the man finally slid into his clunker car and sped away. Hannibal rolled his eyes and straightened his jacket as he watched the car disappear around a curve. His breath puffed out before him. Ophelia took a deep swig of the creamy caramel coffee drink as Hannibal muttered something to himself and shook his head. He was so close; Ophelia was content to simply watch him.

But instead of choosing to remain veiled behind the Thanksgiving decorations, safely hidden away with her coffee, Ophelia rapped on the window with her knuckles, pressing her face agains the window. It was barely audible, Ophelia was sure, but Hannibal heard it, his back straightening immediately and his head snapping up. She tapped on the window again, and this time he saw her. She smiled and waved to him, holding her coffee up to the window as an invitation. His face remained still for a moment, his eyes trained on her face as if deciding whether or not she was real. But then he broke into a brisk walk, crossing the street without so much as a glance in either direction for oncoming traffic. He was a picture of deep concentration as he burst through the door of the cafe, only to stop dead and stare at Ophelia, who shot to her feet, knocking her chair back a few inches.

"Hi," Ophelia cleared her throat, for it was suddenly clenching and her stomach was filling with riling butterflies, as cliche as it was.

"Ophelia," he clenched and unclenched his fingers, still standing in the doorway. His eyes darted from her face, to the notepad, and then to the cup of coffee that she still held tightly in one hand, as if it were glued between her fingers.

"Do you wanna," Ophelia motioned to the chair opposite hers at the table, her coffee sloshing, "sit down? Get coffee?" She did not know why her tongue felt so heavy in her mouth.

"I would like that," Hannibal nodded stiffly. He crossed to the table mechanically, but did not sit. Instead, he stood a foot away from Ophelia and waited for her to move.

Awkwardly, and with seemingly great difficulty, they both sat, never breaking eye contact. Within moments, Maria appeared with a steaming mug and set it before Hannibal, who dismissed her with a charming nod. Ophelia took this brief reprieve to exhale.

"How are you?" he asked, turning back to Ophelia and staring her down again.

Ophelia took a deep gulp of her coffee, ignoring the painful burning it caused in her throat, "Good, good. It's nice to be out of the house."

"I'm sure it is," Hannibal mirrored her actions, taking an equally deep and equally painful sip of coffee, "Have you made any progress?" He nodded to the notepad.

Ophelia shifted in her seat, "Maria. That lady," she pointed to the small woman, who continued to bustle about, "She's on the list."

"Nothing else?" Hannibal's voice was anxious. He made a mental note to reign himself in. Patience. Slow and steady.

"Not really," Ophelia sighed, "It's been a hard couple of days."

"How so?" Hannibal wanted nothing more than to be inside her head. He wished for her to spill everything she was feeling to him. He wished she felt like she could.

"I just do what Alana and Will tell me to do over and over again, but... I wake up and there's nothing. I'm empty. Like there's a big hole in my chest, and I don't know what's supposed to fill it," Ophelia took another scalding sip of coffee, "I just feel... fucked up, ya' know? Like, what's going on in my head? I don't even know." Normally she would feel embarrassed for being so frank with someone she didn't know. But she did know him. The only thing she was sure of was that Hannibal was someone that she could trust. She couldn't possibly justify that feeling to anyone, but she was sure of it. Out of the window she stared, her words hanging in the air between them.

Hannibal felt as if he could very well explode. He looked into her honest eyes and exhaled, letting out all the air that had been pent up in his chest while she had spilled her guts. As she continued to watch the activity out on the street, Hannibal looked down at her small hands. They were cupped tightly around the mug, surely burning her palms. He longed to take them in his. But he knew he could not.

"I'm sorry," Ophelia suddenly stood, leaving her mug on the table, "I shouldn't have said that. It's just been a long day. I should-"

"Have dinner with me," Hannibal blurted, standing as well. Such domestic, romantic gestures were new to him. One would think such a put-together man as Hannibal would be quite comfortable and adept at such things. But he felt tongue-tied for the first time in his life.

"What?" Ophelia stared blankly up at him. Evidently, the words had come out in a jumble.

Hannibal took a deep breath, "I hear there is a spectacular Italian restaurant downtown. I would... love for you to join me. Tomorrow night, perhaps?" He hated eating anywhere other than his own kitchen. But, following Bedelia's guidance, he had carefully chosen an establishment that served only the finest organically raised foods. A step down from Hannibal's usual fare, but for Ophelia he would make do.

"Like... like a date?" Ophelia's face flushed.

"Yes," Hannibal said curtly. That was as good as it was going to get, he figured. He felt out of place enough, standing amongst the quaint plastic turkeys and pilgrim hats in a tailored Italian suit. It was the effort that counted.

Ophelia fidgeted, fiddling with her fingernails, "Sure," a smile spread across her face involuntarily, "Tomorrow."

"Fantastic," Hannibal's chest felt as if it might burst, "Tomorrow. I'll... pick you up." He felt so bourgeoisie, asking a girl on a date. At his age and with his status, as well. But the pink flush of her face made him forget himself.

"Tomorrow," Ophelia repeated, gathering all of her things, "I'll see you then." She stacked a few bills on the table by her coffee and skirted around Hannibal, who watched her go. Once again, he longed to touch her. But instead he simply watched as Ophelia made for the bus stop, ever so often throwing a glance over her shoulder back at the cafe. It gave Hannibal pride to know that the glances were meant for him.