Someone was following her. She knew it.

The creeping sense of someone's eyes on you had been slowly tingling on the back of her neck as she walked through the crowded streets of downtown Boston. On her way back from the local deli where she had grabbed dinner, she had used pauses at stoplights and reflecting glass panels to glance behind her and spot the perpetrator. But every single time, there was never a face that stayed the same, no one that seemed to be paying the slightest attention to her. Whoever they were, they were good. Or maybe she was just going crazy. Waking up in a hospital with no memories and no one with any of knowledge of who you are can do that to a person.

Emma tried shaking off the feeling. That was it. She was just being paranoid. No one knew her. No one would be looking for her. No one had any reason to follow her. The first few weeks after waking up, she had nursed the flaming hope inside her chest that someone was coming for her, that she wasn't completely alone. Nights had been filled with vague faces that she knew she knew. Faces that filled her gut with longing and despair at the same time. But then she would wake up. And she would still be alone. Soon, those faces started to fade, dimming more each night, along with whatever hope she had of being found. There was no one who wanted to find her. One year wouldn't change that fact either.

But she still couldn't bring herself to leave Boston, just in case.

Starting over hadn't been easy, but somehow she had managed. She was good at finding things. And stealing. While the latter was what she had done at the beginning, she had eventually found a job assisting at a P.I. firm, making enough money to eventually rent her own apartment. A tiny flat overlooking the harbor.

Coming to the front door of her building, she caught her reflection in the doorway and scowled. Her brown hair flowed in a tangled disarray from the wind. One of the first things she had done when she had been released from the hospital was dye it. Every time she had looked in the mirror, her reflection had taunted her. It was the reflection of someone she had no memories of. It was an appearance she had no memory of choosing. And she wanted to choose something. To establish some sense of identity. And a cheap box of dye from the store was the only option for someone with no money.

The door to her flat was barely ajar when she finally made it up to the 4th floor. Her entire body tensed in defense and she quietly reached into her purse to pull out her can of pepper spray. She had a tiny handgun stashed in a dresser drawer, but if someone had broken in and was still in there, there was a good chance that it had already been found.

She pushed the door open with her heal, holding out the can in front of her as a weapon. Emma blinked, lowering the can in a surprised huff, when she saw no one and nothing looked too out of sorts. She only noticed a few things that looked slightly out of place, things anyone except her would notice. But someone still had been in there.

"I swear I'm not the one who broke in. The door was already open when I got here."

Jumping, Emma gasped and spun around, immediately holding up the pepper spray as threatening as she could. It was a man who looked a couple of years older than her, with messy brown hair and eyes that matched. He eyed her defensive stance and held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa," he let out a short chuckle, looking like he wasn't sure to be amused or actually threatened, as he took a step back. "Jesus, Emma, is that pepper spray?"

"Who the hell are you?" Emma demanded heatedly through gritted teeth.

He looked taken aback for a moment before his eyes filled with stunned understanding. "It's true," he whispered, "you don't remember anything."

Emma studied him carefully, trying to ignore the way her heart started to pound in anticipation. She didn't want to get her hopes up. Not yet. Did she know him? Maybe there was something about him that seemed familiar. And he knew her name. If Emma really had been her name, that is, and wasn't a name he had gotten from following her or something. "What are you talking about?" she asked evenly, not lowering her hand a centimeter.

"You… you really have no idea who I am – I thought Hook was crazy… and your hair-" he cut off his musing before putting a hand to his chest, "I'm Neal. Neal Cassidy."

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Emma hoarsely implored, "Why should I believe anything you say?"

"I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I've known you since you were seventeen and we have-" Neal suddenly shook his head, thinking better of whatever he was going to say, before he continued to calmly reason with her, "you can trust me. I'll answer any questions you have. How about over a drink?"

"Why?" Emma asked, her suspicion starting to rise again, but nonetheless, she dropped her arms to her sides, wanting answers too much to take the time to try to figure out if she really could trust him. Because after a year, why now?

Neal looked relieved that she seemed to believe him by lowering her weapon, but his composure still remained cautious and alert as he shrugged. "I figured you would feel better talking in a public place," he glanced around the room, "Plus, this was broken into, which I'm guessing means someone else has figured out where you are too. We should figure out who before you come back."

So there were other people looking for her too? And why did he make it sound like they were not all good? She wasn't sure if anything he said would be the truth, but it was something and she would keep the pepper spray within reach at all times. "Okay," Emma conceded, a knot in her stomach starting to tighten, "Let's go."

They walked about two blocks to a little hole-in-the-wall bar, still early enough that there were open booths and it was relatively quiet. Neal ordered a drink before they sat there enveloped in an awkward silence before he finally asked, "So do you remember anything?" there was a hint of hope and desperation in his voice, "anything at all?"

A flash of a castle and a whirlpool came to the forefront of her mind. But no, it was too crazy. The memory too hazy and dreamlike to be real. "No," Emma answered somberly after a brief hesitation she hoped he didn't notice. Maybe she should have ordered a drink after all.

Neal gave a frustrated sigh and brought his hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes tiredly in the process, mumbling, "I shouldn't be the one doing this."

She wanted to snap at him and ask who should be the one doing this, but thought better of it. Trying not to let her annoyance show, Emma wryly stated, "So my name is Emma."

"Yeah, Emma Swan," Neal answered nonchalantly, taking a swig of his beer. Emma Swan. Something about that sounded right.

"And you've known me since I was seventeen? Why am I just now hearing from you?" Emma's voice began to rise, her questions turning into a rant from all the hurt and anger that had been simmering under her skin from the moment she had no idea who she was, "From anyone, apparently? I woke up in a hospital a year ago-"

"It's really, really complicated," Neal interjected with some hesitancy, a guilty and apologetic smile forming on his face.

Emma irritably snapped, "Well un-complicate it."

Running a hand through his hair, Neal threw out his arms in defense, his voice matching her tone, "I don't even know where to start!"

"How about you start with how I'm supposed to know you," Emma suggested bitingly, wondering why he seemed to bring out all this hostility in her.

"Okay. We met when you were seventeen," Neal replied quietly after taking a moment to think about his answer, "You were stealing the car that I had been sleeping in-"

"You've got to be kidding me," Emma muttered under her breath, mostly to herself, putting her head in her hands. Well that explains why thievery was something that had come natural to her.

"If it makes you feel better, I had already stolen the car," Neal said with an amused, self-deprecating chuckle. Clearing his throat, he then added, "And then we- and then we were together…"

Emma quickly glanced back up at him, eyes wide at the new knowledge as it put a whole new light on the situation. "For how long?" she asked as she studied him, trying to figure out if they were still supposed to be together or not.

"Almost a year. Some things… happened," Neal told her, his words careful as he looked down at the table. There were definitely some things he was leaving out, but she willed herself to wait to hound him on it until he was finished, "and I didn't see you for a long time after that. Until you showed up in Manhattan with my father…" he paused, eyeing her warily before confessing, "and son."

The pointed look on his face told her it wasn't just his son he was talking about. "I have a kid?" Emma choked out incredulously, eyes darting between the two of them, "We have a kid?!"

There was no way she had a kid. A son. She would know. Motherly instinct and all that, right? But maybe she had known. Maybe there was a reason she always found herself crying when she saw little boys with brown hair. "Henry," Neal answered, nodding, "he's 12."

Henry. She repeated the name in her head like a mantra. Something that was so overwhelming and impossible she shouldn't be true, but she knew that if anything were true, this was it. She had been gone an entire year. What had he been doing? Then another thought made her nauseous. Was she that terrible of her mother, her was okay living without her? "This.. this is insane," Emma shakily gasped, trying to let this all settle in. There was still a good chance she could wake up tomorrow morning and all this really be a dream, taunting her with people she would never be with.

Neal leaned forward, determination lacing his voice, "I know it's a lot to take in right now, but you have to believe me."

Emma was about to open her mouth to reply when she was cut off by another voice. "I wouldn't believe him just yet," the man with dark blonde hair sitting in the booth behind Neal, back to them this entire time, twisted around in his seat. A scarf wrapped high around his neck, making his grin and eyes look even crazier, "he's leaving out the best parts of the story."

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