Mary Margaret trudged through the thick overgrown that landscaped the small cemetery. The foliage, usually full and luxurious, was now beginning to yellow and wilt, a sure sign of the February season. But despite the greenery's weakness, it still managed to overwhelm every headstone without an attentive owner. Mary Margaret, with only slight observation, noticed that this was true for almost all the gravesites in the cemetery. Once or twice had taken the liberty of pruning back the persistent weeds of a few of the burial sites, hoping that their loved one's were just unable to find them. But it had been nearly a year since she'd given up on that, and the brush had almost grown back, only slight vestigial evidence that anyone had taken the time to care for those forgotten souls' resting places. As Mary Margaret approached her father's grave, she could help but notice that the weeds had begun to take their hold again. It wasn't as if they grew incredibly fast or anything, she just hadn't been frequenting the cemetery as often as she thought she should have - the weeds were proof enough of that. Sure, there were AP exams coming up (in over three months) and she had her volunteer work at the pet shelter on Saturdays (which consisted mostly of ogling David Nolan) and then there was helping out Ms. French in the office every Wednesday (only once a week...) but most days were like these - days when she immersed herself in contemplating the exact pivotal moment when her life became this complicated. She could talk about those things with her father she knew, but having him unable to answer back was something difficult for her to face.

Her father aside - herself aside - she should have at least been making the weekly visits she promised to Mel, if only so she could deliver the same broken letter and postcard to his daughter. Mary Margaret understood Mel in a way only people struck with tragedy can. She understood that he was trying to salvage something that had been long-lost, and she envied him for having that chance. Because the one stark difference in Mel's case was that Belle was a living, breathing person, and Leo, Mary Margaret's father was a corpse stuck six feet under until the upheaval of the earth.

Death is so final, and if your lucky enough quick. But Leo's death had been neither lucky nor quick. Pancreatic cancer's the worst. The dying happened slowly, stretching out for months - but the actual death happened in a only a few minutes. Doctors and nurses crowded in the room, trying their best to keep him breathing his heart beating...

"Let... Me... Go... She will save..." he whispered in Mary Margaret's ear, right before he went limp.

Those words haunted her every time entered the cemetery, her father begging her to hold on without her. When she first started coming here so visit, she always asked him questions about why she had to let him go, and who will be the on e to save, and what was she supposed to saving, and why wasn't she here. But over time, after she made herself realize that he couldn't answer, she stopped. Her father wouldn't have liked the talk of death too much - even in a cemetery. So now she was here, asking for advice on how to save herself.

David sat on the brick steps leading into Mel's shop, carnations still in hand. He didn't know why he couldn't go in there, to face his mom of all people, who couldn't even yell at him now. She'll be disappointed, he immediately thought. But he'd done everything right, hadn't he? He was earning a mixture of B's and A's in school, working hard on the field as starting quarterback, volunteering at the pet shelter every Saturday, respecting his adoptive father, and honoring his commitments to his girlfriend. What was there to possibly be ashamed of? It couldn't be because of Mary Margaret, could it? Was it the way he had looked at her just now as she paid for her flowers? The way he smiled because she was smiling? Because he'd noticed all these things before? Was he being unfair to Regina? After all she'd helped with and done for him? His mother would definitely be disappointed in that...

The sky seemed a little bluer and sun a little brighter after he realized this, but his feet wouldn't budge; he just couldn't bring himself to walk over and bring her a bouquet of pink carnations. What was wrong with him?

Suddenly, he heard a deep voice echo behind him. "She's some girl, isn't she?" David turned around to see Mel standing in the doorway with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets.

"I could tell you to get off my property or threaten to get you arrested for loitering," he continued, "but since I like her, and she likes you, and you like her, I'm going to like you too."

"What do you mean?" David asked, furrowing his brows.

After a short, incredulous burst of laughter, Mel sat down next to him, propping his elbows up on his knees. "You think I'm blind?" he said with laughter still smeared across his voice.

After another look of confusion from David, Mel became serious. "The way you'd glance at her every few seconds? How whenever you did, her eyes would find yours and you'd both go back to combing through every single goddamn flower in my shop, only for her now to glance at you? The cycle was endless until she remembered who she was staring at and went to pay!"

Mel let his words hang in the air before they began to sink in.

"And who is it she remembered?" he went on. "Because him and the guy clearly staring back her seem to me two different people." A beat. "What's your name?"

"David."

"You got a last name?"

"Nolan."

"And just who are you, David Nolan?" The question seemed philosophical, but at the same time it felt as if it were trap, as if by answering this one simple question his world would collapse around him.

"I already told you," he shrugged, feigning ignorance.

Mel's expression became somber. "You've got to come to terms with who you are before you try and find her, son." He heaved his large frame up from the steps and went back inside, closing the door behind him.

David could definitely see the family resemblance to Ms. French.

Killian Jones often frequented the cemetery. No one knew why, except him of course. Everyone else believed he was just a clinically depressed teenager with creative innuendos up his sleeve, totally inconspicuous guyliner, and a fetish for cemeteries. The second and third were true (his innuendos were creative, and no one had commented on his experimental eyeliner, so it must have been inconspicuous enough) maybe even the first (well, maybe not clinically depressed, but perhaps something of the sort - generally moodiness, perhaps) but Killian Jones did not have fetishes. Of all particular days, he didn't know why he came here. The was that new blonde who liked to saunter around campus, Emma, who he would just love to figure out for the sake of a puzzle to solve. She seemed more enigmatic than the other, one-dimensional girls in Storybrooke. She would be much more fun unraveling than his other conquests - figuratively and literally, of course. But even so, there was something pleading and broken in the expression of her eyes that made him want to back away; because the only thing he could do to repair something was break it even more. This was a feeling he shrugged off, having not felt any sympathy for women since Her. Sometimes, when he was in good mood - or a terrible one - he would talk to Dr. Hopper about Her. And Her was all his would her. There was never a name, and when Archie asked for one, Killian would silently get up out of his chair and leave. When Archie asked questions about Her, Killian left. When Archie pressed for details about Her, Killian left. When Archie did so much as to mention Her, Killian left. So Dr. Hopper was left to only to listen, never write anything down in his notebook, and basically pretend he wasn't even there when Killian talked about Her. He described everything in the vaguest detail, about their romance, how their relationship ended, about everything in between. But he never once said a word about how he felt.

Killian wasn't at the cemetery because of her, though. She hadn't died - physically at least. The grave was covered by weeds and ivy, choking their way up the headstone. He felt bad for not keeping it up, for not giving him some payment for listening to him babble on when there was no else to talk to - there was always no one else to talk to - but his pride kept getting in the way. Killian Jones care? Never!

Off guard, he swept away some of the greenery blocking the name across the headstone.

"Why am I here?" Killian asked himself, a million memories were shoved back to the front of his mind like they always were when he visited. It hurt. And for some reason, to Killian, it still felt like it didn't hurt enough.

"I don't know what to do, Dad," Mary Margaret pleaded. She sat in front of her father's grave, her eyes fixed on the grass beneath her. "She's been nothing but cruel to me for years, so I don't have any reason to like her. None whatsoever. But you were so compassionate and forgiving, even to people who treated you like Regina is treating me... Even when you heard the rumors about Mom and her co-worker. But then there's another part of me that's tired of being trampled on, one I didn't even realize existed until today.

"A new girl started at school this morning. Emma Swan. She walks with such a force and purpose that I haven't seen done by any other person - besides Regina. But Emma isn't like Regina. She seems just as bent and twisted, but in a different direction. I think she's been trampled on enough to never want to be trampled on again, or even risk being touched by someone. But I also think she might be nice, underneath all of that barbed wire."

Mary Margaret was silent for a moment, hoping out of some trick of fate that she'd hear her father answer back. But he didn't. He stayed silent, the wind rustling the sturdy pines the only sound in what seemed the entire world.

Belle French drove by the cemetery. The wrought iron gates were as rusted as ever, and the upkeep was worse than before. Still she saw little splotches of color riddling the long grass - flowers, one's that had been wrapped and purchased from her father. It took everything she had not to go into his shop, just across the street. It took everything she had not to run back into his arms after she read each one of his letters (yes, she did read them; right after she tossed them in the waste basket and Mary Margaret closed the door, she would tear through the trash and rip open the envelope). It took everything she had not to do anything more than just drive by every once in awhile, especially after she smelt the red roses he would give her. The roses she tended to, too. She replanted them in her front yard, as if maybe to advertise to her father that she still loved him, in spite of all he had done, and in the hope that he would drive by someday like she did.

Her car slowed as she got to the front of the flower shop. She could see Mel through the window, smilingly handing flowers to a customer. His eyes darted toward the street for a second, and she sped away, watching him run out of the shop in his side-view mirror. She saw him mouth her name, and her imagining of his voice haunted her the whole way home.

Alright, Dolls,

A shorter chapter... less sarcasm, less dialogue, and whole bunch of vague mush. I'm sure you all can guess whose gravestone Killian is visiting, and who Her is. Predict in your reviews if you so choose. And on an upswing (sorta) we're building up to some more Snowing action, ya'll! And as you've probably noticed, Emma is quite absent in this chapter, but don't fret she'll be back for some family time and for some Captain Swan shiz.

Tootles!

-C.J.