He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, absently pulling one leaf after another from the branches above his head, methodically shredding them vein by vein until he has a tiny green graveyard scattered along the ground by his feet. He can feel his mom watching him from the window, the weight of her gaze pressing along his spine, but he can't bare to look up at her, to see the concern and worry etched across her face. They'll need to talk eventually, but he needs to figure some things out on his own first.

"I thought you might want to have this." He jumps at the voice, he didn't hear anyone leave the house; glancing up he sees Robin walking towards him, a small cardboard moving box clutched in his hands. "It was your father's…what was left of his in the apartment in New York. I offered it to Gold when we were there, but he wasn't interested. Now that I'm ho…" His voice halts, stutters over the word 'home' and Henry wonders for a moment why he can't bring himself to say it, why after months of being here, weeks spent reacquainting himself with the world he thought he'd left behind, he still can't utter the words.

"Thank you. I appreciate it," he answers with a smile, trying to break the tension that is suddenly filling the air.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," he says clearing his throat and placing the box on the ground by his feet before turning to leave.

"Robin?"

"Hmm?"

"What was it like? New York. I mean, what did you think of it?" He fumbles over his words, trying to get across what he really wants to ask, 'Are you okay? What happened? How did everything get so messed up?'

"It was loud," he offers, with a grimace that pulls a laugh out of both of them.

"Yeah, it is. You get used to it though. It becomes comforting in a way, the constant background noise. There's this hum of life that reminds you that you aren't alone."

"Indeed it does. May I?" He gestures to the empty space on the bench beside him before taking a seat at his nod of approval.

Silence settles between them, thick and oppressive, filled with all of the things they want to say, but they just can't find the words for.

"It was different," Robin finally starts. His voice is soft and distant, as if the usual warmth of his tone has been cooled by the memories swirling through his mind.

"I miss it sometimes. The pizza, my friends. Things were so much simpler when I was there, but it wasn't real. I love my moms, and I love Storybrooke, the family I have here, the family I could have," he looks pointedly at Robin with that, trying to tell him with his eyes what he means, 'you could be part of that family.'

"But?" Robin asks, lightly bumping his shoulder, his eyebrow arching up in question the same way his Mom's does when she wants to know something. He wonders for a minute if that's a soulmate thing, if the similarities in some of their expressions, the gestures they make that are almost identical, are because they share two pieces of the same soul.

"But," he starts nudging his shoulder back with a grin, "I miss that life sometimes. A life without magic, a life where my mothers weren't 'The Evil Queen' and 'The Savior.' It was just me and Emma, I was never adopted. I never told my mom she wasn't my mom. I never hurt her in that life because I didn't know who she was," he whispers the end, plucking another leaf from the branch above him, staring down as it as he worries it between his fingers so that he won't have to look at the man sitting next to him. .

"Hey, you know your mom loves you," strong hands grip both of his shoulders, turning him so they are facing one another. "We've both hurt her, in different ways, but Regina also understands, better than anyone, what it's like to have a second chance. She would hate it if she knew you were feeling this way, if you felt like you couldn't talk to her."

"I know, and it's not that, I just…" he sighs, running a hand absently through his hair. "You know, Mom once told me I would have more family than I knew what to do with one day, I just never thought it would be like this." He nudges the box with the toe of his sneakers.

"Things don't always turn out the way that we plan. Families don't take the shape you expected; you lose people and you gain people along the way." His voice is tight, choked with some kind of emotion; Henry isn't sure if it's grief over Marian or something darker, something to do with the twisted complications Zelena has brought to their lives.

"Like what's happened with the baby?" He ventures, a little nervous with how he'll respond. They haven't talked about this, it's been discussed of course, but not just the two of them, not without his mom there to soften things, to fill the empty areas of confusion and hurt with her resolve and determination.

"Yes, like what's happening with the baby. And like what happened to your dad," he gestures to the box still resting on the ground between them. "You just have to do the best that you can. You have so many people who love you Henry, we just want to help."

"I know," he smiles a little finally meeting Robin's eyes. We. He'd said we. Maybe things would be alright after all, they might still be a family despite everything that happened in the last few months.

"What is important is appreciating the time you have with those you love, and honoring the memory of the ones you have lost," he squeezes his shoulder, just a brief contact before he stands. "I'll leave you to look through that, take all the time you need. And if I'm not mistaken, I think there is a not-so-evil-queen that has been staring us down for the past few minutes who might need a little reassurance that everything is okay," he chuckles, turning and raising an eyebrow at the window where he knows his mom is still watching.

"Good luck with that," he chuckles, watching as he heads toward the house. "And Robin?" he calls.

"Yeah?" he questions, stopping and turning back for a moment.

"Thank you." The older man nods with a smile before turning . Henry watches for a moment tracking Robin's movement as he passes window after window, moving from room to room until he reaches his goal. A smile spreads across his face as he sees Robin pull his mother into his arms, the way she falls into him and her tension seems to melt away.

Satisfied that she's okay for now, that Robin will look after her, he turns back to the simple box at his feet, pulling it into his lap, he takes a deep breath and lifts the lid. Everything is jumbled up, shifted and scattered as if it's been jostled in transit. He pulls each item out: a wristwatch with a worn, broken, leather band; an empty lighter that sparks and fizzles as he runs his fingers across the rolling flint; a stack of sketches, cathedrals, images, faces that stare back at him with graphite eyes and chalk highlighted smiles; and finally, an oversized hoodie, the fabric worn and soft. He pulls it to his nose, hoping to catch some lingering hint of his father's scent, the father he barely knew, but all he smells is dust and cotton, the stuffy aroma of months spent encased in cardboard.

It's not much, just a few things that he can fit neatly inside of a single cardboard box, but it's all he has left of Neal, these paltry remnants of the only father he's ever known. Carefully stacking everything back into the box he breathes deeply, Robin's words coming back to him in the silence, 'things don't always work out the way that we planned.' His family is not traditional, he has two mothers (one who is also his step-great grandmother), his grandparents are Snow White and Prince Charming, his Wicked Witch Aunt is about to give birth to his cousin who could also be his potential stepbrother or stepsister; it's all complicated and not at all the way he would have planned it, but it's not something he would change.

Standing, he lifts the box and cradles it under one arm as he heads inside. Robin was right, he needs to appreciate the time he has with the people he loves, to soak up every second he has because there is no guarantee something won't come along and turn their world upside down again. This is his home, this is the life he would choose, the family he would pick despite all the messy confusing ties that bind them.

As he steps into the house his mother is there waiting for him, open arms and a shy smile, eyes shining with so much love he can feel it radiating off of her from across the room. Placing the box on the side table by the door he steps easily into her arms, hugging her back with every ounce of strength he can muster, breathing in the familiar cinnamon vanilla scent of her skin; he doesn't think he'll be missing New York anymore.