DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.

This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…

In the shadow of the toll bridge

Chapter 8 – Making waves

After driving around Storybrooke for about a half hour looking for the lost sheriff, Snow resigned herself to the fact that he simply did not want to be found and headed home. A hundred possibilities of how or why Graham seemed to have regained at least some of his identity occurred to her but they all led back to the same thing – Emma. Snow had advised her daughter to talk to him, and this…well this must be the result.

So when she rushed back to her house, she had hoped to find Emma home and waiting, perhaps even wanting to tell her about it. But Emma was not there. The house was locked up, the rooms quiet, and that beat up yellow car of hers was not in the driveway. Snow's early evening reunion with Ella seemed so long ago now, and she tried to keep the optimism she'd felt upon leaving Barbarac Lane in her heart as she paced the living room, waiting for Emma to return. But there was no sign of her daughter, and a late night bluebird from James asking her to meet him at their bridge before school the next morning demanded that she get at least some sleep that night. So when it got to be 2am, and Emma still wasn't home, she turned in, enduring a little maternal uneasiness that her daughter had not yet returned. Still, as James would have probably reminded her, she had got along for more than two decades without a mother worrying at home. Wherever she was, Snow knew, Emma could take care of herself.

Early the next morning, Snow awoke to find Emma's car at last in the driveway. Hoping to gain at least a little information before she had to leave, she showered, dressed quickly and ran up to the spare room to see if her daughter was yet awake. But Emma was snoring soundly when she peaked her head in the door, and Snow just didn't have the heart to wake her sweet girl. No. She would have to wait. Time was short and if she was to make it to the bridge and back before school began, she needed to leave now.

A quick drive and a hasty jog through the familiar trees and leaves of what remained of their enchanted forest and Snow had arrived at the intended spot. Except that James was not there. She checked her watch. 6:30 on the dot. Where could he—

Strong arms caught her round the waist and she shrieked as she was swung into the air and then set down again by her prince. She barely had time to glimpse the handsome features of his face and the passion in his eyes before he claimed her for a kiss. It was a joy to be close to him again, and she relished in the feel of his body pressed up against hers as she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his embrace.

At last he pulled away, holding her back from him as he caught his breath. "Sorry," he said, grinning down at his wife. "Couldn't help myself."

She smiled with a light-hearted groan, tracing the outline of his jaw with the tips of her fingers. "Hiding in the trees, Prince Charming? Not exactly playing fair."

He touched the tip of her nose, an eyebrow raised in amusement. "I learned from the best, my dear."

Snow reached up and clasped his right hand in hers as she felt through his hair with her left. "Hard to believe that was nearly 30 years ago."

He nodded, sobering a bit and brushed a tendril of hair off her face. "How's Emma?"

Snow sighed. "I don't know. She wasn't home yet when I finally went to bed and was still asleep this morning when I left." She moved past him, wringing her hands together as she glanced up toward the town.

"What's wrong?"

She bit her bottom lip and turned to her husband. "James I think…I think something's happened."

She related the conversation she'd had with Emma that night about Graham as well as what she'd seen in the street after leaving Ella's. "He was frantic, James. I've never seen him like that. It was like he'd gone a little mad."

"And you saw this wolf?" James asked, arms crossed contemplatively as he listened to this latest development.

She nodded. "It was the same one he used to travel with. The same one I saw the day I …the day I escaped." She shuddered at the memory, recalling her desperate flee from the man masquerading as one of her father's knights sent by the queen to kill her simply for—she shook her head. It wasn't worth dwelling on. "When I ran for cover that day, I stumbled over some snarled vines and saw him. He was staring at me – one red eye, one grey. And I knew the huntsman wasn't far behind."

James squeezed her hand, for he knew how much Snow disliked talking about this part of her past. They were practically married before she'd finally confessed the entirety of her history with the queen. Having to revisit that period now, James knew, was painful for her. "So the sheriff of Storybrooke is the queen's old huntsman," he said, fitting her hand into the crook of his arm and escorting her along the brook. "And you think he's starting to remember?"

"I'm sure of it. The way he looked at me?" Snow shook her head. "Something must have happened when he talked to Emma."

"Can we be sure it was Emma?"

She tugged on his arm and stopped so she was facing him. "No. But Emma's been the catalyst for all that has happened here. Her arrival set everything in motion. She may not be aware of it, but she's changing everything."

James nodded and they continued on their walk, mindful of each moment, for they knew time was precious. He told her of Regina's visit and subsequent invitation. She related all she had learned at 'Ashley's' and choked up a bit when she told him how beautiful and perfect little Alexandra was. All in all, it was a much-needed sharing of information, and both understood such updates were necessary. But as the ever watchful clock tower ticked closer and closer to 7:15 and it became impossible for Snow to linger any longer lest she be late for school and generate suspicion, their short time together seemed just that…short.

"Just…be careful," she said, practically gripping her husband's hand. "There's no telling what kind of power she has here, James. I don't want you walking into a trap."

"I know," he said gravely. "But I can't stand it that Henry is in there with her. I won't leave him alone in that house if I can help it."

His head hung low and Snow had to peer up into his eyes just to catch his gaze. She knew how scared he was for their grandson, how much it had pained him to send Henry away knowing the boy was returning to the queen. But the gravity of the situation didn't lessen the intense swell of love in her heart as she beheld her husband acting like the father he never had the chance to be. Tenderly, she reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. "He'll be all right," she whispered, touching her forehead to his. "He has Emma…and he has you."

James heaved a heavy sigh and relaxed at her touch, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. Even through the thick material of her pale blue coat, she still smelled of pine needles, wildflowers and cinnamon. Holding her now was a comfort and joy, the remnants of a life they once shared together…a life they hoped to have again soon. The clock tower chimed once more, alerting them, and James pulled back.

"You should go," he said a little more gruffly than he'd intended. Being here under the cover of their old bridge was risky…in more ways than one. "See what you can find out about the sheriff."

She nodded and kissed him goodbye. "I love you," she hugged him one last time, squeezing hard. "Be careful tonight."

"I will." He watched her race up the hill and out of sight, then turned in the direction of the rear path that led toward the pawn shop. He wanted to be there when Gold opened. He had some shopping to do.

…

It amazed James as he walked through the square, his new purchase tucked safely beneath his arm, how…normal it all looked. People lined the streets offering greetings and salutations, chattering busily about upcoming holiday preparations and the mundane goings-on of life in Storybrooke. Heading into the grocery store, clearly dressed as one of its clerks, James spotted Samson – their old chef. A few doors down, Aaron, one of the palace stable hands, was coming out of a drugstore. Perhaps he just hadn't noticed yesterday, but hearing Snow tear herself up over the fate of their people had made them impossible to ignore today. Who knows how many of them had stories just like Sean and Ashley: normal enough lives but without any real hope of lasting happiness. And though he knew in his head he was right to remind his wife that they couldn't possibly have prevented it, the guilt that came with being awake while everyone else still slept in the curse was acute.

"One day at a time," he muttered to himself, repeating the advice he'd given Snow to strengthen his own resolve now. With a deep breath, he continued toward the main plaza. Collodi's Auto Shop was a mere two blocks away from the school, so it was difficult to resist the temptation to drop by Storybrooke Elementary to see Snow and Henry. He was a man on a mission though, so as he held tightly to the box under his arm, passed up the school, and pushed his way inside the shop.

On the inside, Collodi's didn't look anything like one would expect of an auto shop. There was a service desk, to be sure. Light from a small office behind it shined warmly onto the gray countertop, and to the right stretched long hallway down which James could hear the clanking and clunking of bulky machinery and mechanisms he'd come to know as power tools. But to the left of the entrance way stood an assortment of objects stacked and cluttered along a series of hanging metal shelves. There were a half dozen mantle clocks, a few small televisions, what looked to be two halves of an elaborate crystal chandelier and about seven or eight different mechanical holiday decorations James had seen people setting up on their lawns. Each item had a bright orange tag tied to it revealing the name of its owner, and all were marked "for repair." Surveying the variety of objects on the shelves, James confidently gave his own box a gentle tap and turned toward the service desk.

Not long after Regina had left the night before, Kathryn had returned to the house and set about fixing dinner. Casually, he'd probed her for more information and quickly discovered that Marco Collodi – alias of their old palace craftsman – was not only the town mechanic but was also Storybrooke's resident "Mr. Fix-it". According to Kathryn, 'if you wanted something repaired, you took it to Collodi's.'

"Hello?" he called out softly.

"Just a moment!" he heard a familiar voice. The sounds of rummaging and shuffling of paperwork followed and at last, the old man emerged. "Welcome my friend," came that sage Italian voice. "How may I help you?"

James stared rather stupidly for a moment as he recovered from the sight of the wisest and most worldly man he'd ever known standing before him in a blue mechanic's jumpsuit. Covered in oil smudges from head to toe, the balding gentleman looked more wrinkled and worn than James had ever known him to be, and the ear-to-ear grin with which Geppetto always greeted even the most threatening foe was dulled and muted across Marco Collodi's face. Still, the man smiled warmly and not even the queen's curse could erase the blue-fairy twinkle from the tinkerer's eye.

"Mr. Collodi?" James thrust out his hand and gave Geppetto's a hardy shake.

The man shook his head, waving him off with his other hand. "Eh, no need for formalities here, my friend. Please," he drew his hand back at his chest, bowing his head ever so slightly, "call me Marco."

James nodded. "Marco it is," he glanced around. "I'm uh…I'm David. David Nolan."

Marco's eyes widened, his white bushy eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "Ah, yes. Storybrooke's resident John Doe. We have been reading about you in the Daily Mirror of course."

James rolled his eyes. "Oh yes. All over the front page I'm afraid."

Marco chuckled, "Well can you blame them? I do believe your story is the most exciting thing to happen in Storybrooke in…well, many many years."

James's eyes narrowed as he studied his old confidant's face. Marco seemed to be lingering on this last point, his gaze distant. It was a look James had come to know well. It was the same one Kathryn had every time she tried to think back to a specific time in her past. The look of a cursed man trapped in his haze. In seconds, Geppetto snapped out of it and the glimmer returned to his eye. "I imagine you are tired of folks asking you what you remember."

James simply gaped. Geppetto…Marco…there was no difference. The man was as intuitive and sharp as a knife.

"So I will simply ask: what brings a local celebrity like you to my shop?"

James was about to reply when he was startled by a loud crash followed and a string of muffled profanities. He strained his neck around the counter, trying to make out what had happened down the hallway, but couldn't see a thing.

Marco, however, didn't budge; instead he sighed, rolled his eyes and leaned his head back, angled in the direction of the service center. "Leroy! We have customers here!" he shouted. The profanities ceased and the tools started up again without a word. Shaking his head, Marco drew his attention back to his guest. "My apologies."

James waved him off. "Not a problem—"

"Leroy is an excellent mechanic. But he has lousy people skills. Honestly, I'm twice as old as he is and only half as grumpy!"

James laughed outright. Yes, the man before him had definitely not changed one bit. "It's fine, really."

"Please. How can I help you."

James cleared his throat. "Well, I was told you were the man to see if I wanted something fixed."

Marco gestured to the shelves of orange-tagged items behind him. "You heard right, my friend."

Ever so gently, James took the box from under his arm and placed it on the counter. "I'm wondering if you might be able to do something about this."

Intrigued, Marco pulled open the flaps of the box and James looked on. He held his breath, knowing it was a long shot, but still hoping. With delicate hands, Marco reached in the box and slowly lifted out of it the glass unicorn mobile. "How…marvelous," the old man whispered. He held it by its center, a simple silver hook from which branched out four slender arms. As he continued to lift it, the thin white strands hanging from each arm unraveled and the gentle tinkling of clear and blue glass unicorns clinking together sounded like wind chimes hanging in the breeze. When he'd unfolded it in its entirety, he simply stood there, admiring its beauty. "This is exquisite. Such precision and detail."

James gulped. "Have you uh…have you ever seen anything like it?" Geppetto seemed to regard it most intently, that look returning to his face, and James knew he was trying to go back. Trying to remember. But in the end the man just shook his head and continued to stare in awe.

"No I don't believe so. This is definitely one of a kind," he swung it gently to the side so he could see and look at David. "I must say I have never seen finer craftsmanship."

James nodded slowly. "I agree. The man I commissioned to make it for me was the finest craftsman I've ever known."

Marco's eyes leveled with his. "An odd detail for an amnesiac to recall."

James smiled. Yes, he was as sharp as ever. "It was a very important gift."

"Indeed." The magic of the moment ebbed away and the mechanic's pragmatism returned to Marco's face. "Well, what seems to be the problem?"

James tilted the box toward him and withdrew two unicorns, one clear and one blue, from the bottom. "When I picked it up this morning, the man who sold it to me gave me these. Apparently it was broken when he…acquired it. The threads have been cut." He shuddered as he said it, remembering the trying morning he'd had, bartering the mobile away from Rumpelstiltskin. It wasn't so much that Mr. Gold was unwilling to sell, but he'd had to be very creative in explaining why 'David Nolan' wanted a baby's mobile to begin with. And when he'd finally made the sale, Gold withdrew the missing pieces from a locked drawer next to his cash register and handed them over with an eerie look in his eye. "It came to me quite roughened up," he'd said. "Never could reattach these two." Quite roughened up, he thought. It amazed him suddenly that the mobile survived the curse at all.

"I see," said Marco, plucking the glass figures from his hand. He looked back and forth between the unicorns and the full unit. "Ah," he said spinning it slightly to shift the back arm to the front. "They belong here. If you please," he held the hook out to David, indicating that he should hold it.

James took the mobile and held it out for him as Geppetto reached in his breast pocket and pulled out his glasses. Then he squinted his eyes at the tiny horns of the broken figures and sighed. "Yes, this will be tricky. The strands are thin but of a strong material. This is not thread."

"It's not?"

"No," he continued to turn the figures over in his hands. "This is…some kind of wire. Whomever designed this made certain the figures could not simply be snapped off by a strong little tyke in a crib." He smiled at this last part as did his customer.

"As I said," James tried again meaningfully. "Quite the craftsman."

"Yes," Marco replied with a nod, taking the mobile from David's hands and folding it up within the box once more. "And the better the craftsman, the harder the repair."

James's face fell. "So there's nothing you can do?"

Marco raised an eyebrow and held up his finger in protest. "I did not say that my friend. I can have it for you within the week."

He smiled. "Fantastic."

Marco grinned, looking once more at the broken pieces before settling them in the box. Shaking his head, he muttered something in Italian and closed them inside as well. "Ingenious."

James braced his palms on the counter top and leveled his gaze. "Guess they were right about you."

"How's that?"

"You can fix anything."

"Ah well," he glanced back toward the shop. "It keeps me busy. I find that tire rotations and oil changes pay the bills but hold little joy for me. Besides," he tapped the box affectionately, "I am fascinated by the things people bring to me. I love to tinker." He took the box and placed it on a shelf behind the counter. "I fear it's a weakness of mine."

"Or a strength," James countered. "You're obviously good at it," he gestured back at the piles of orange-tagged items. "Fixing things that is," he paused a moment and then added, "But what about building them?"

Marco whipped around, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well," James took a step closer to the desk, his pulse quickening. "You're good at repair. Have you ever...built something from scratch?"

Marco nodded, understanding now, but sadly shook his head. "Oh I have often played with the idea of creating things like these," he said, filling out an orange tag for David's box. "It would certainly be more fun than tuning up engines."

"But?"

"Eh, I've dreamt up a few ideas over the years. But I am afraid I lack the ingenuity, son. The…cleverness required of a true craftsman."

James curled his hands into fists and fought the urge to scoff at such nonsense. Geppetto? Lacking ingenuity? He'd never heard anything so absurd. "Perhaps you just lack the right muse," he offered.

"Or the proper motivation," Marco added, though he said it more to himself. "I would have no reason to craft something as creative and amusing as a child's toy."

James's heart sank, his worse fears confirmed. This world…had no Pinnochio. He was about to reply when another thundering shatter sounded from within the workshop.

"Mamma Mia, Leroy!" he shouted, rolling his eyes.

Shaking his head, James decided not to push it. "Well thank you for taking the job. I can tell you're in the middle of many projects here."

"Always happy to take one more," Marco said, coming around the front of the counter and shaking his hand.

He turned to leave but then remembered something. "Oh, one more thing," James started, "I was wondering about a young man I heard you have working here. You hired him a few weeks ago?"

Marco chuckled affectionately, dropping his hand and taking out a rag to clean his glasses. "Ah, yes. Young Sean."

"That's right, Sean Herman. Is he here?"

"He's out on a delivery right now. I finished repairing Marie's manger scene this morning."

"Marie?"

He laughed. "My apologies. The town affectionately calls her 'Granny' but I refuse to use such endearments with a woman my own age."

James's head was spinning; so many people…so many of his most trusted friends and advisors who were dear to him…so close by and yet so oblivious.

"He'll be back soon," Marco added, eyeing with a bit of caution the sudden distance in his customer's eyes.

James snapped out of it. "That's all right, maybe I'll—"

"Marco," came a hurried voice behind them. Both men jumped at the sound and turned to the entrance.

James froze, his mouth drying up instantly, for a beautiful blonde woman had just walked in the door.

"Miss Swan," Marco was saying. "Is everything all right?"

Emma too had halted upon entering, eyeing the younger of the two men warily. "Y-yeah," she started slowly, answering Marco but not taking her eyes off David. "I'm looking for Graham, have you seen him?"

"Not today, my dear. No."

James remained glued to his spot, not taking his eyes off of her. He knew he must look like an idiot, but he couldn't help himself. There she was. His daughter…his little girl.

"Ok well…" Emma finally wrenched her eyes over to the old man. "If you see him today, tell him to give the station a call." She gave David one more once-over and was gone as fast as she'd appeared.

Finally getting control of himself, James raced outside without another word to Geppetto and threw open the glass doors. "Emma wait!" he called out as he ran to catch up.

Emma paused at the corner, hesitated, and then turned to face him. "Mr. Nolan," she gave him a curt nod, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets.

James stopped several feet away from her, a little surprised by the chilly look in her eyes. The last time he'd seen her, she was at the party, smiling and friendly, almost supportive of his return home. "It's 'David'," he insisted, catching his breath.

"David," she replied. "What is it?"

"I was just uh…I was just wondering if you were…I mean you looked kind of upset in there," he fumbled. Lord, is this how Snow had felt the first time?

"It's nothing. My boss is missing. I'm just trying to find him."

"Anything I can do?"

"No," her reply came almost too quickly and she turned on her heals to walk away.

Something was wrong, James thought. She wasn't just uncomfortable or awkward. Why she was almost…hostile. "Emma," he called out and this time, his voice was steady and strong. She stopped in her tracks. "Is there something…bothering you?" he asked. Slowly, she turned back around as he finished. "About me?"

Emma crossed her arms over her chest and sighed, shifting her weight to one leg as she looked past him. She seemed to be considering something, weighing her options before she returned his gaze. "I saw you yesterday," she said finally, "with Henry."

"You did?"

"Yeah I headed up to the shore around 3 to see if he was there and I saw the two of you…at his castle."

James took a tentative step forward, unsure if he should feel panicked or intrigued. "That's right, he didn't want to take the bus home. Asked if I would walk with him to his mom's office and he…" he paused, unable to resist a small smile at the memory, "…he showed me a little more of Storybrooke." He shoved his hands in his own pockets and glanced around at the surrounding neighborhood. "I'm still kinda getting my bearings around here."

"I know," she said, her eyes boring into his. "That's what worries me."

"I'm sorry?"

She shook her head and sighed, again seeming to be deciding whether or not to continue. Instinct took over and she took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sure you've noticed by now that Henry has a pretty…wild imagination. I'm not sure what all he told you, but I imagine you heard some pretty…strange things."

"Like me being Prince Charming?" James countered, knowing the risk involved in such a reply. But he too was letting instinct take over and he felt strongly that he must stand his ground.

Emma's mouth hung open a bit, but then snapped it shut. "Among other things, yes."

"He might have mentioned it a few times."

Emma rolled her eyes. This was clearly not what she'd wanted to hear. "Look um," she stared at the pavement, her stance suddenly vulnerable as she shifted her weight back and forth. "I don't know if you know this but Henry is…well he's my—"

"He's your son," James said matter-of-factly, and it startled Emma for he had taken several steps closer.

She looked up and her eyes softened a tiny bit out of relief for not having to admit it herself. "So he told you that too."

"He talks about you a lot," he said warmly, trying to break through the iciness with which she so obviously shielded herself. "Cleared up a lot of things, you know. I didn't see any of Reginain him."

At the mention of their shared foe, Emma tensed up again and regained her stoic posture. "Yeah well, Regina is another story, but I'm more interested in the one he's been telling you."

"What do you mean?" James asked, listening intently.

Emma again hesitated. That strange sensation she'd felt when observing David with her son had not changed. He was as peculiar and oddly familiar to her now as he was yesterday. But it didn't quell the doubts that 28 years of abandonment, betrayal and sadness had buried inside her. She did not trust this man and yet, paradoxically, she felt as if she could level with him completely. "Look," she began, "Henry has a tendency to latch on to people he believes are the…well, the 'good guys' in his story."

She'd used air quotes on the word 'good' and James wasn't exactly sure he liked what that implied. "Ok?" he said, urging her to continue.

"He's obviously told you all about it. In his fantasy world, he thinks you're Prince Charming so he trusts you completely. He wouldn't have shown you his castle otherwise."

James stared at her in admiration. For a woman who – according to Snow – had no plans to officially claim Henry as her own, Emma knew her son…very well.

"The thing is," she paused glancing around the street and stepping closer to ensure privacy, "I've seen what happens when people betray that trust. It just about destroys him, and it drives him to do some…pretty self-destructive things."

"Like climb into an abandoned mine?" he asked pointedly.

Emma eyed him closely. "He really has told you everything, hasn't he?"

James flinched. There was…jealousy in her voice. "No I heard about that when I was still in the hospital," he explained quickly. "It was…well it was pretty big news around there."

Her expression didn't change. "Right."

James closed his eyes, ignoring the searing ache in his stomach. She thought he would betray him? "Emma…I would never hurt Henry. You have to know that—"

"That's just it, I don't know that." She shifted uncomfortably for the distress in this man's eyes was getting to be more than she could take. "I don't know you. I don't know why you were even at Henry's school yesterday. And I have no idea what really happened between you and Mary Margaret that night, except that she sent you back to your wife—"

"Emma, that's not—"

"So if you're just humoring Henry so you can stay close to Mary Margaret—"

"Excuse me?" James nearly scoffed, stepping back from her as if her very words had physical force.

Startled by the pain and near outrage in his voice, Emma uncrossed her arms and shoved them back in her pockets. How did he affect her so? She'd made a career out of revealing the duplicity of others, oftentimes with far more volatile results than this. But the tremor in his voice was not that of a man caught in an act of deceit. It was the voice of a man who was genuine…guileless…and hurt. "I-I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Like I said, I don't know you—"

"No you don't," he cut-in, recovering himself from the blow of her words. "But you will," he said, holding her gaze. He took a deep breath, stealing himself against the immense sadness he felt staring at the hardened eyes of his daughter, realizing for the first time how much work it would take for him to win her trust. Forced to see things as she did, he understood her concerns. But that she had them in the first place was devastating. "You will, and I promise you, I…I could never hurt Henry…or you."

Emma's pulse was racing. She believed him…Holy hell…she believed him. I found your father…he's in the hospital…I found your father…She shook her head sharply, forcing Henry's voice from her mind. "Yeah well…" she stammered. "Don't worry about me. Just Henry."

James nodded. "Got it," he said. "I promise."

She narrowed her gaze a bit, searching one last time for any hint of perfidy. But she saw none, and finally, she nodded. "Well…good," she said lamely.

James didn't reply, but kept his eyes on her until she turned on her heel and walked back to her car. She opened the car door and was about to step in when he called out to her. "Emma!"

She turned. "Yeah?"

He froze. He had her attention and he so desperately wanted to leave her better assured…but what he wanted to tell her she would never believe. "Take care," he finished, weakly, "I'll…I'll see you around."

Emma didn't reply, but offered a perfunctory nod before she climbed in, slammed it into drive, and sped away.

*** So this isn't actually the Emma/James conversation I'd alluded to earlier. The characters kinda took this chapter over themselves! Hope you enjoyed.

Kudos to all of you who correctly identified the Ever After and Rogers/Hammerstein references in the last chapter! We obviously all love the same fairy tale films!

Graham and Snow are up ahead, as well as Sean and a few more familiar faces in Storybrooke.

Winter hiatus ends in five days!***