There's something about the way everything smells just after it's rained. That earthy smell, that makes everything seem fresh and new. I've come to love that smell.

When I first moved back to Boston I wrote a column about it. The smell. How refreshing it was. How it reminded me of fresh starts, new leaves – whatever. It still does. It reminds me of starting all over again.

I didn't really think much when I left New York, I just packed a bag and got on a bus. Boston was the simplest option at the time. As it turns out it was probably one of the better decisions I've ever made. I rolled up at the hostel, dripping wet, with a small bag of things. I will never forget the look on desk guy's face. I hadn't slept for probably two or three days, and I'd been wearing the same clothes for just as long. I was soaking wet from the rain, and to top it all off had been crying for most of the journey. I don't think he knew whether to wrap me in a towel or slam the door in my face. But I managed to explain between sniffs that I had spoken to him from the bus about staying there for a few days.

It was a real hole, and I've stayed in my fair share of them over the years. I reached out to some of the cops I knew from the first time I lived here. They pointed me in the direction of a nice little place about to go on the market. It really didn't bother me that there had been a violent homicide there in the weeks before. "Wife found her hubby screwin' the babysitter." My desk sergeant friend explained. I'd seen worse, and the rent was cheap as a result. The landlord had a new carpet fitted before I moved in, so that helped.

Getting a job was a lot easier too. In New York, I'd been working tirelessly on the news desk of a rather well known publication. I won't name them, since I didn't leave on the best terms, and really it's not all that relevant. Except to say, that when I walked into the office of the Boston Bugle and asked for a job, they read a few of my clippings and made me a columnist. Seriously. If I'd have known it was that easy I would have moved here years ago. So now I spend my time writing interesting and funny articles for a newspaper about my life, and current affairs. Dream job. It certainly beats chasing criminals for a cash reward. And let me tell you the jump from bail bonds person to investigative reporter was easier than I thought it would be. But I don't even have to do that anymore.

When I'm running low on ideas for a column I open the fan mail. Although I don't think you can call it fan mail. It's generally either religious nuts telling me that I'm going to hell, people asking me to write about their charity, latest business venture, CD, or their missing cat. But sometimes just sometimes there are actually letters thanking me, because I've written something that someone else can relate to, and knowing they aren't alone has made them feel a little better.

I also get another kind of letter. They are all unopened in the bottom of my desk drawer. Because I can't actually throw the damn things away. When I first started as a columnist they arrived every other week, now they arrive every now and again. I can normally recognize them from the scrolled handwriting that sort of screams my name. And they go straight in the drawer.

Except today. I've been opening letters to kick start my brain, sorting them into piles I will reply to, piles that need throwing in the trash, and another that just need filing for future reference. I would have picked the card out from all the others and swiftly deposited it alongside all the others if Marcia, one of the food critics hadn't just pushed open my door and invited me to the new Mexican place that opened up. They get to review all the best places, and she knows I have a weakness for tequila and nachos. As a result when I glance down, there in my hands is an open card with my ex-best friend's handwriting in it. All it says is:

"Emma.

Don't ignore this.

I'm in Storybrooke General.

I'm dying.

Please come.

Love always Regina."

And I can't stop staring at it.