(Storybrooke)

Granny's Diner hummed with quiet chatter, the low hum of the jukebox in the corner adding a layer of warmth to the scene. Sheriff Graham stood by the dartboard, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he prepared to throw. Watching from the counter was Harry, who glanced over with mild curiosity. Sidney leaned back in his chair nearby, arms crossed with a skeptical grin. Graham's dart flew true, striking the bullseye with precision. "Nice shot, chief," Sidney remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Betcha twenty bucks you can't do it again."

Without missing a beat, Graham grabbed another dart. "Next round's on him," he muttered, already lining up his shot.

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Careful, Sidney. He might clean you out at this rate."

Across the diner, Emma Swan entered and made her way toward the counter, her boots clicking against the tiled floor. Ruby intercepted her with a friendly smile. "Hey, Emma. What can I get you?" Ruby asked, pen poised over her notepad.

"Nothing." Emma's sharp tone made Ruby hesitate for a moment before retreating to another table.

The dart Graham threw next landed just shy of the bullseye, but it still prompted a satisfied nod. "What the hell?" Emma snapped, turning toward him. "You could've hit me."

Graham smirked, his confidence unwavering. "I never miss."

Emma crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. She could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her. "You've been avoiding me since last night," Graham began, lowering his voice as he approached. "You know, after you saw me leaving the mayor's house."

Emma stiffened, her expression unreadable. "And, yes, that is a euphemism," Graham added, his tone bordering on sheepish.

Harry came over to the two of them, "Did something happen between you two?" he asked.

Emma turned to Harry, "I'll tell you later. Just head back to the loft, ok?"

Harry nodded and then he left. Once Emma was sure that Harry was gone, she turned to Graham. "I'm not avoiding you," Emma shot back, her voice cold. "I just have no interest in having this conversation. It's your life, Graham, and I really don't care."

The night air was crisp as Emma stepped outside Granny's Diner, her boots crunching against the gravel lot. She heard the familiar sound of footsteps behind her and turned, already knowing who it was. "Emma, wait," Graham called, his tone insistent. He caught up to her, his breath visible in the cool air. "Can we talk?"

Emma crossed her arms, her patience already running thin. "What is there to talk about?"

"If you don't care," Graham pressed, his frustration clear, "then why are you so upset?"

Emma scoffed, shaking her head. "I'm not upset."

"If that were true," Graham countered, stepping closer, "you'd still be in there having a drink with me, not running out like this. Just talk to me. I need you to understand."

She exhaled sharply, turning away from him. "Why?" she asked flatly, her voice heavy with exasperation.

Graham hesitated, his words catching in his throat. "Because... I don't even understand it myself."

Emma turned back to face him, her eyes narrowing. "Go talk to Archie if you need analysis, Graham. Your bad judgment? That's not my problem."

He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. "You don't know what it's like with her," he said finally, his voice dropping. "I don't feel anything. Can you understand that?"

Emma's jaw tightened as she stared at him, her fingers tapping against her crossed arms. "A bad relationship? Yeah, I understand that. But I don't want to talk about yours."

Graham shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his boots before glancing back up at her. "I didn't want you to look at me the way you are now," he admitted softly, his voice tinged with regret.

Emma's expression flickered, something almost vulnerable crossing her features before she quickly masked it. "Why do you care how I look at you?"

"Because..." Graham trailed off, his words hanging in the air as his gaze unfocused.

Suddenly, he closed the distance between them, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers in a desperate, impulsive kiss. His breathing slowed as blurred images flashed through his mind—a forest, shadowed and surreal. The faint rustling of leaves. And then, the wolf. Its mismatched eyes—one red, one blue—pierced through the haze like a haunting memory.

Emma shoved him back, her voice sharp with disbelief. "What the hell was that?"

Graham staggered, his hands shaking as he raised them defensively. "Did you see that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"See what?" Emma snapped, her anger flaring. "How much have you been drinking? That was way over the line."

"I'm sorry," Graham stammered, his hand moving to his head as though to steady himself. "I just—"

"You just what?" Emma demanded, her voice rising. "What were you thinking?"

"I need to feel something," Graham admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession.

Emma's expression softened for the briefest moment, but it quickly hardened again. "Listen to me, Graham," she said firmly. "You're drunk, and you're full of regret. I get it. But whatever it is you're looking to feel, I can tell you one thing—you're not getting it from me."

With that, Emma turned on her heel and walked away, her boots echoing against the pavement as she disappeared into the night. Graham stood motionless but then he ran over to Regina's house. At the foot of Regina Mills' house, the crisp night air pressed against his skin. His mind raced, unsettled and searching, but his body moved with purpose as his fist rose to knock against the polished wood of the door. Within moments, the door creaked open, and Regina appeared, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp, taking him in with a flicker of curiosity. "Graham," she said, her tone cool yet expectant.

"Is Henry asleep?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

She gave a small nod, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Yes. Why?"

But Graham didn't answer. The words he might have said dissipated as he stepped forward into the dim light of her doorway. Without a moment's hesitation, he closed the space between them, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was desperate, searching, and full of the frustration and confusion that had plagued him since he left the diner. Regina didn't pull away. Instead, she welcomed the storm he brought with him, pulling him into the house and shutting the door behind them.

(Enchanted Forest)

The kingdom was shrouded in mourning, veiled by grief as black as the clouds that hung low over the palace. The king—Snow White's beloved father—was dead. No one knew what had stolen his life. The servants whispered of how he was found cold and lifeless in his chamber bed, but the cause remained a mystery cloaked in sorrow. In the grand hall, the king's coffin lay draped in rich fabrics of white and gold. Snow White knelt before it, her fingers trembling as she placed a single white rose atop his still chest. The weight of loss pressed down on her like the oppressive silence that filled the room.

Behind her, the Evil Queen watched, her face a mask of compassion. Her steps were soft as she approached Snow, her touch gentle as her hand came to rest on the girl's shoulder. Snow wept openly. The tears that streaked her face were not just for the father she had lost, but for the future that now seemed so uncertain. The Evil Queen's arm wrapped around her, pulling her into an embrace that felt comforting, yet cold. "I loved him so much," Snow whispered, her voice breaking.

The Queen's voice dripped with honeyed sincerity. "So did I, dear. So did I. His loss cuts me to the core. But no pain I feel could compare to what you must be enduring. I may not be your mother by blood, but I am here for you—always and forever."

Snow's tears fell harder as the Queen held her closer, whispering false promises into the storm of her grief. Later, within the shadowy walls of the Dark Palace, the Evil Queen stood in her private chamber, her lips curled in satisfaction. The Magic Mirror shimmered before her, his reflective surface pulsing with malevolent energy. "Congratulations, your revenge is nearly complete," he intoned, his voice smooth and cold.

The Queen turned to him, her eyes alight with cruel satisfaction. "One down. One to go."

"She has no idea, does she?" the Mirror asked, his tone heavy with curiosity.

A slow, sinister smile spread across the Queen's face. "That I orchestrated his death? She clings to me for comfort. It's almost unbearable, how pathetic she is. Do you know how tempting it was to end her miserable life then and there?"

"Tempting, but unsatisfying," the Mirror mused. "Her death must be more... meaningful."

The Queen nodded, her expression hardening. "Exactly. The kingdom adores her. They would turn against me if I acted rashly. They don't see the vile wretch she truly is. They don't know what she did to me. Her downfall must be precise, and elegant. It must destroy not just her life, but her legacy."

"Then it must be handled with care," the Mirror agreed. "A knight, perhaps?"

"No," the Queen said sharply, her tone decisive. "Knights are bound by honor. I need someone devoid of such weakness. Someone who kills without question. Without mercy."

The Mirror's surface shimmered, revealing an image of a rugged man stalking through the forest, blade in hand. "A huntsman, then. One with no heart to weigh him down."

The Queen's eyes gleamed with dark delight. "Now you understand."

Deep within the Enchanted Forest, the Huntsman moved silently among the trees, his every step a practiced dance of stealth. A stag stood before him, majestic and unaware of its fate until the moment the blade struck true. The Huntsman knelt over the lifeless creature, his voice low and reverent. "You have died so that I may live. Your sacrifice is not in vain." He placed his hand over the creature's body, a gesture of solemn respect.

From the shadows, a wolf emerged, its piercing gaze fixed on the man. The Huntsman turned to the creature, his expression softening. "Don't worry, boy," he murmured, his voice calm. "You won't go hungry tonight."

The wolf sat back on its haunches, its mismatched eyes—one red, the other blue—glinting in the fading light. Together, man and beast disappeared into the forest's depths, unaware of the dark purpose that would soon intertwine their fates.

(Storybrooke)

The room was stifling, heavy with silence and shadows. Sheriff Graham woke with a jolt, his chest heaving as if he had run for miles. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking the sheets beneath him. He sat up, pressing a hand to his face, the vivid remnants of a dream flickering in his mind. It wasn't just a dream—it felt too real. Regina stirred beside him, her voice soft but edged with curiosity. "What is it?" she asked, sitting up slightly.

Graham didn't look at her immediately. His thoughts were elsewhere, back in the dream—no, the memory—of the forest. The weight of the bow in his hands, the release of the arrow, and the stag falling to the forest floor. And then the wolf, its mismatched eyes, one a vivid blood-red, the other an endless void of black. It had stared at him with an unsettling intelligence as if it knew him. He finally responded, his voice low and troubled, recounting the strange vision. Regina listened, her expression shifting from mild concern to something unreadable when he mentioned the wolf. She reached for his arm, her touch light but firm.

"It was just a dream," she said, her tone almost too even. "Come back to bed, Graham."

But he couldn't shake the unease that clung to him. "It didn't feel like a dream," he muttered, already rising from the bed.

He began pulling on his clothes, the movements brisk and filled with a restless energy. He needed air, and space to think. Regina's voice followed him, soft but insistent. "You're tired. It's late. Stay."

He hesitated, glancing at her. The worry in her eyes seemed genuine, but something about her plea felt wrong. Graham shook his head. "I left my car at Granny's," he said, pulling on his boots. "I need to get it. Clear my head."

Regina sat up straighter, her tone hardening. "You're not well. Don't leave."

He met her gaze briefly, the flicker of defiance in his eyes. "Since when do you want me to stay, anyway?" he asked, the words more resigned than bitter. He stood, slipping his keys into his pocket.

She didn't answer, her silence sharp and cutting. Graham didn't linger. Outside, the night was cold and quiet, the air bracing against his skin. He walked toward the street, his boots crunching on the gravel. Reaching for his car keys, he fumbled them, dropping them onto the ground. As he bent to pick them up, a shadow moved in the corner of his vision. When he straightened, he froze; a wolf stood a few feet away, its pale fur gleaming under the faint moonlight. Its mismatched eyes locked onto his, one red as fire, the other dark as a starless sky. The wolf didn't growl or advance—it simply stared, unblinking and intense.

Graham took a step back, his breath catching. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with him. Then, the wolf turned away, padding silently into the shadows, its form swallowed by the night. Graham stood rooted to the spot, his heart racing. Whatever that had been—dream or memory, hallucination or reality—it had shaken something deep within him. He looked back at the house briefly, then at the darkened street ahead. With a sigh, he pocketed his keys and began walking, the wolf's gaze lingering in his mind like a warning he couldn't yet understand.

The morning sun filtered through the blinds of the loft, casting soft beams across the kitchen as Harry moved around, making breakfast. He cracked eggs into a pan and chopped vegetables, his black wolf, Toothless, sitting patiently nearby, eyes glowing an acid-green as he watched the movements of his companion. Harry wanted to do something nice for Emma and Mary Margaret, a way of thanking them for letting him and Toothless stay for a while. A small gesture, nothing too grand. As Harry stirred the eggs, he noticed Emma coming downstairs, her footsteps slow but purposeful. She paused when she saw the flowers on the kitchen table, her eyes narrowing.

"Really?" Emma said, raising an eyebrow and grabbing the bouquet. Without a second thought, she tossed them into the garbage bin with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

Mary Margaret, who had just walked in, blinked in surprise. "Oh. Hey. Wait, what are you doing?"

Emma glanced at her, then at the trash. "If Graham thinks flowers will work on me—"

Mary Margaret widened her eyes in shock. "No, those were mine."

Emma froze, her eyes darting between Mary Margaret and the trash. "Oh. From David?"

Mary Margaret sighed. "No. Dr. Whale."

Harry looked surprised to hear that Mary Margaret's flowers were from Dr. Whale. He had witnessed her on a date with Dr. Whale before but he was more into staring at Ruby than getting to know Mary Margaret. He turned off the stove for a moment then turned to Mary Margaret. " Are we talking about the same Dr. Whale that acted like a jerk on your late date?" Harry asked.

"I know," Mary Margaret groaned, rubbing her forehead. "It's a disaster."

Emma smirked. "No. That's amazing. You're getting over David."

Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. "First of all, there's nothing to get over. And second of all, just a one-night stand."

Emma tilted her head, unconvinced. "Not according to those flowers."

Mary Margaret sighed again. "Yeah, maybe I shouldn't have called him."

Emma blinked, genuinely surprised. "Oh my God. You called him? That's definitely not a one-night stand."

"I... Okay," Mary Margaret stammered, flustered. "I'm still learning. I... I never had one before. I felt guilty."

Emma shook her head, her expression softening. "Why? There's nothing wrong with what you did. Trust me. One-nighters are as far as I ever go."

Mary Margaret shot her a pointed look. "That's because you're—"

"Because I'm what?" Emma interrupted, narrowing her eyes, a challenge in her voice.

Mary Margaret hesitated, then sighed, giving in. "Never mind."

Emma leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms, eyes searching Mary Margaret's face. "Yeah, tell me. What do I do?"

Mary Margaret took a deep breath. "You're just protecting yourself. With that wall you put up."

Emma's face hardened slightly. "Just because I don't get emotional with a man?"

Mary Margaret stared at her for a moment before replying, her voice gentle but firm. "You don't get emotional with a man? The floral abuse tells a different story."

Emma blinked, clearly confused. "What story is that?"

"The one that's obvious to everyone—except apparently you," Mary Margaret said, picking the flowers out of the trash and walking toward the vase on the counter. "That you have feelings for Graham."

Emma scoffed. "Come on."

"There's a wall," Mary Margaret said, her tone softening as she arranged the flowers in the vase.

Emma shook her head, a little defensive. "That's not a wall."

Harry, who had been quietly listening, put the spatula down and cleared his throat. "You know, Emma, sometimes walls just make things harder, not easier."

Emma shot him a quick, sharp look. "Oh, really? And how would you know?"

Harry leaned against the counter, folding his arms. "Because I've seen people build them—big, solid walls—only to realize later that they're the ones keeping themselves from what they want most." He glanced at Mary Margaret, who gave him a small, grateful smile, before turning back to Emma. "Just saying, sometimes letting a little light in helps."

Emma let out a breath, her arms still crossed, eyes narrowing. "I don't get emotional with a man," she repeated, though her voice lacked the conviction it had before.

Mary Margaret smiled gently as she placed the vase on the table. "Really?"

Emma exhaled, slightly frustrated. "There's nothing wrong with being cautious."

"True," Harry said, giving a small nod. "But what if that wall's been up for too long, and it's blocking out something good?"

Mary Margaret looked between them, eyes softening as she watched Emma's hesitant expression. "Emma, that wall of yours—it may keep out pain. But it also may keep out love."

Emma looked at the floor, her face a mix of contemplation and uncertainty, as Mary Margaret walked away, leaving Harry and Emma in the kitchen's quiet. Sensing the shift in energy, Toothless padded over to Harry's side and nudged him gently with his snout, as though offering silent support. Harry smiled down at the wolf, rubbing his ears. "Thanks for that, bud."

Emma sighed, still standing at the counter, her arms now uncrossed, but her mind clearly far away. Harry didn't press, but his unspoken words lingered in the air."Emma," Harry began, his voice calm but insistent. "What were you and Graham talking about the other night?"

Emma stiffened slightly, knowing she couldn't avoid the topic any longer. She took a deep breath, her fingers drumming lightly on the counter. "The real reason Graham would be out from the night shift," she said finally, her voice low but steady, "is because he's... sleeping with Regina."

Harry's reaction was immediate. His face contorted with a mix of shock and disgust. "The hell?! What is wrong with him?!" He glanced toward the stairs, his expression softening slightly. "And Henry...?"

"He doesn't know," Emma replied firmly, though the tension in her voice was palpable.

Harry exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned back to the stove. Without another word, he finished preparing breakfast, sliding a plate in front of Emma. Emma opened her mouth to say something, but Harry cut her off. "Me and Toothless will deal with Graham."

Before Emma could protest, Harry grabbed his jacket, whistling softly for Toothless, who had been quietly lying by the door. The black wolf rose gracefully, his acid-green eyes gleaming as he padded over to Harry's side. Minutes later, Harry and Toothless arrived at the sheriff's station, only to find Graham's desk empty. A glance at the clock confirmed it was well past the time he should've been there. Harry muttered something under his breath, a mix of frustration and determination, before heading back outside.

Sheriff Graham moved cautiously through the dense trees, following the wolf he had seen earlier. The creature's silhouette was faint, darting in and out of view, but its presence was undeniable. A distant howl echoed through the woods, sending a shiver down Graham's spine. He paused when another sound reached his ears—a rhythmic scraping, unmistakably the sound of a shovel digging into the earth. Graham adjusted his grip on his flashlight and moved toward the noise. "Good morning, Sheriff," a familiar voice called out as Graham stepped into a small clearing. Mr. Gold stood there, his posture casual as he leaned on his shovel. "Sorry if I startled you."

Graham relaxed slightly, though his confusion remained. "Right. Sorry, I—I thought you were a wolf."

Gold smirked, raising a brow. "Did I forget to shave?"

The sheriff shook his head, glancing around the clearing. "What are you doing out here so early?"

Gold gestured to the freshly dug earth at his feet. "A sport of gardening. Yourself?"

"I was looking for..." Graham hesitated, his eyes darting back toward the trees.

"A wolf," Gold interjected smoothly. "Yeah, I think I've been able to catch on. You know, to the best of my knowledge, there are no wolves in Storybrooke. Not the literal kind, anyway. Why are you looking?"

Graham hesitated again, then sighed, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "You'll think I'm crazy."

Gold tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Try me."

"I saw one in my dreams," Graham admitted, his voice dropping. "And then I saw one for real. Just a few hours ago." He gestured vaguely toward the spot where he'd last seen it. "Did you—did you see anything unusual right there?"

Gold studied his shovel for a moment, then looked up with a faint smile. "I'm afraid not. I do wish I could be more helpful." He walked past Graham, but paused after a few steps, turning to face him again. "You know, Sheriff, they say that dreams..." Gold's voice dropped slightly, his words deliberate. "...dreams are memories. Memories of another life."

Graham frowned, his confusion deepening. "W-What do you believe?"

Gold's smile widened ever so slightly. "I never rule out anything." He tipped his head in farewell. "Good luck, Sheriff. I do hope you'll find what you're looking for."

As Gold disappeared into the woods, Graham remained rooted to the spot, his thoughts spinning with questions he couldn't yet answer. A rustle in the bushes nearby broke the silence. Toothless stepped into view first, his sleek black fur blending seamlessly with the shadows. His acid-green eyes locked onto Graham, unblinking and almost predatory. A moment later, Harry emerged from the trees, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. "Graham," Harry called his voice firm but not aggressive. "We need to talk."

Graham tensed, his hand instinctively moving toward his flashlight, though he made no move to draw it. "Harry? What are you doing out here?"

"Following you," Harry replied bluntly, crossing his arms as Toothless padded closer to his side. "Emma told me what's going on."

Graham's eyes widened slightly, guilt flashing across his face. "It's not what you think—"

"Oh, I think it's exactly what I think," Harry cut him off. "You're running around chasing wolves because you're too scared to face the mess you've made. What the hell were you thinking, getting involved with Regina of all people?"

Graham's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. "You don't understand—"

"No, I don't," Harry interrupted, his tone sharp. "But I understand enough to know this isn't just about her. There's something else going on with you, isn't there?"

Graham hesitated, glancing at Toothless, whose piercing gaze seemed to bore into him. "I... I don't know," he admitted finally. "Something's happening to me. I'm seeing things—dreams, memories... I don't even know what's real anymore."

Harry's posture softened slightly, his frustration giving way to genuine concern. "Then let me help you figure it out," he said. "But you need to stop running from this. Whatever it is, it's not going to go away just because you ignore it."

Graham looked between Harry and Toothless, his shoulders slumping as the weight of his inner turmoil pressed down on him. "I don't know where to start."

"You already did," Harry said, gesturing to the woods around them. "But next time, don't do it alone. Come on—let's get back to town before someone else starts asking questions."

With a reluctant nod, Graham followed Harry and Toothless back toward the edge of the forest, the distant howl of a wolf echoing faintly behind them. Suddenly, Graham took off following the wolf's howls. Harry groaned and realized that this was gonna be harder than he thought.

(Enchanted Forest)

The dense forest gave way to a narrow path, where the Huntsman strode silently alongside the wolf that had become his only companion. The two moved as one, their steps synchronized in an almost predatory rhythm. The Huntsman's expression was stoic, but his hand brushed the wolf's fur in a gesture of quiet camaraderie. Beyond the trees, the faint glow of a tavern's windows broke through the darkness, the sounds of laughter and clinking mugs beckoning from within. Pushing open the heavy door, the Huntsman stepped inside, the wolf padding close at his heels.

Conversations quieted as heads turned toward the pair, the wolf's presence drawing murmurs of unease. A tankard of ale clattered onto the Huntsman's table, the barkeep sliding it across without a word. The Huntsman reached into a pouch at his side and tossed a chunk of meat to the wolf, who caught it midair before settling under the table to eat. Across the room, the murmurs turned to mockery. "They're letting animals in here now?" one man sneered, his voice loud enough to carry.

"This isn't a slaughterhouse," another added, wrinkling his nose.

A third man leaned closer, his voice dripping with derision. "Forget it. He might as well be one, too. I heard he was raised by them."

The group laughed, the sound sharp and grating. "He smells like them, too," another man chimed in.

"Pathetic," a fifth scoffed. "I heard he cry over his kills. Imagine that. A grown man weeping over a dead deer."

One of them, braver—or perhaps more foolish—than the rest, approached the Huntsman's table. His voice was low and mocking. "Tell me, Huntsman. What kind of man cries over an animal?"

The Huntsman raised his gaze, his voice steady and unyielding. "An honorable one."

The man smirked. "What do you know about honor?"

"I have it," the Huntsman replied. "They have it." He glanced at the wolf. "You don't."

The man's face twisted with anger. "Animals have honor?"

"They are pure of heart," the Huntsman said, his voice calm yet edged with steel. "Not selfish and self-serving like people."

The wolf rose to its feet, a low growl rumbling deep in its throat. Its mismatched eyes fixed on the man, a clear warning in its posture. The man took a step closer, his hand dropping to the hilt of a knife. "Tell him to back off. Because you know what I do to pets that threaten me? I hang them on my wall."

The Huntsman moved faster than the man could react, his blade flashing as it plunged into the man's shoulder. A strangled cry escaped him as he crumpled to the ground, clutching the wound. "He is not a pet," the Huntsman said, his voice cold and final.

Another man lunged at him from behind, but the Huntsman twisted, seizing him by the arm and hurling him against a wall. The crash of breaking glass echoed through the tavern as the man struck a mirror, shards raining to the floor. The Huntsman bent down, picking up a shard of the shattered mirror. Its jagged edge gleamed in the flickering light as he turned to face yet another challenger. The man faltered, his courage evaporating under the Huntsman's unyielding glare. Without a word, he turned and fled, the door slamming shut behind him. The Huntsman set the shard down on the table, his reflection briefly captured in its fractured surface.

Far away, in the shadowed halls of the Dark Palace, the Evil Queen watched the scene unfold within her enchanted mirror. A smile of satisfaction curved her lips as the image of the Huntsman lingered on the broken glass. "He's perfect," she murmured, her voice dripping with triumph.

She turned to one of her guards, her command sharp and clear. "Bring him to me."

The guard bowed and left the chamber, the Queen's gaze returning to the mirror, where the Huntsman's silhouette faded into the forest.

(Storybrooke)

The forest was alive with the rustling of leaves and the faint call of distant birds. Harry and Toothless stood on the edge of a clearing, the tension between them and Sheriff Graham from earlier still palpable. Harry crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he watched Graham scan the trees ahead. "I still don't understand what you're hoping to find out here," Harry said, breaking the silence.

Graham hesitated, "I just... I need to know what's real. Something's pulling me out here, and I can't ignore it."

Toothless, standing beside Harry, tilted his head and let out a low growl, his sharp ears twitching toward the distant sound of a wolf's howl. Harry glanced down at his companion and sighed. "Fine," Harry relented. "We'll stick with you. But if this is some kind of wild goose chase..."

"It's not," Graham said firmly, his eyes briefly meeting Harry's. "You can head back if you want, but I have to see this through."

Without waiting for a reply, Graham started forward, his footsteps crunching against the forest floor. Harry and Toothless exchanged a look before following him, the wolf's acid-green eyes scanning the woods for any movement. The distant howling grew louder, reverberating through the trees. Graham froze as a flash of dark fur darted between the trunks ahead. "There!" he called out, pointing.

Toothless let out a soft growl and lowered his body, ready to pounce if necessary. Harry held out a hand to calm him. "Let's not spook it," Harry whispered.

Graham nodded, stepping cautiously toward the spot where the wolf had disappeared. Suddenly, the creature emerged from the shadows, its piercing gaze locking onto Graham. The wolf stood still, its breath visible in the cool air. "What do you want?" Graham asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The wolf didn't respond, of course, but its eyes seemed to hold an eerie intelligence. After a moment, it turned and began to walk away. "HEY!" Graham called, whistling sharply.

To Harry's surprise, the wolf paused, then turned back and approached Graham. Toothless tensed but stayed by Harry's side, his gaze fixed on the newcomer. Graham knelt down, hesitantly resting a hand on the wolf's head. As soon as his fingers made contact, a rush of blurred images flooded his mind: A dense forest, alive with the sounds of nature. The Huntsman raising a knife. Snow White staring back at him, her eyes wide with fear. The wolf beside the Huntsman howling mournfully. The cold, stone walls of the Evil Queen's vault. Graham gasped, jerking his hand away. The vision vanished, and the wolf darted back into the shadows, disappearing from view.

"Graham?" Harry stepped forward, his voice laced with concern. "What just happened?"

"I—I don't know," Graham muttered, his expression dazed. "But I need to figure it out." Without waiting for Harry's reply, Graham turned and began making his way back toward town.

Toothless let out a small huff, and Harry sighed. "We're not done with this," Harry muttered under his breath as he and Toothless followed.

The school bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Children poured out of the building, their laughter filling the air. Sheriff Graham hesitated at the entrance, gathering his thoughts before stepping inside. He found Mary Margaret in her classroom, tidying up after the day's lessons. "Mary Margaret," Graham said, his voice urgent. "Can I talk to you?"

She looked up, startled by his tone. "Graham, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

"I think we—I think we know each other," he said, his words tumbling out.

Mary Margaret offered a small, puzzled smile. "Of course we do."

"No," Graham interrupted, shaking his head. "Not from here. Not from Storybrooke."

Mary Margaret frowned, setting down the stack of papers in her hands. "From where then?"

"Another life," Graham said, his voice heavy with conviction.

Mary Margaret's eyes widened, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. For a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed deafening, and the weight of his words hung thick in the air. Mary Margaret blinked, unsure how to respond. "Graham... how long have we known each other?"

Graham's gaze grew distant. "I don't know. A while."

"Do you remember when we met?" Mary Margaret asked, her voice hesitant.

"No," Graham admitted. "Me neither. Isn't that odd?"

Mary Margaret fidgeted with a stack of papers. "I don't know. I—I suppose. I think that's just life. Things get hazy."

Graham stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. "Have I ever hurt you?"

"No, of course not," Mary Margaret said, startled. "What is going on?"

"Do you believe in other lives?" Graham asked.

"Like heaven?"

"I mean like past lives," he clarified.

Mary Margaret's eyes widened slightly. "You've been talking to Henry."

"Henry?"

"Oh, he has this book of stories," she explained. "He's been going on about how he thinks we're all characters from them. From another land. That we've forgotten who we really are. Which, of course, makes no sense."

"Right. No, of course," Graham murmured, though his expression remained troubled.

Mary Margaret reached out to touch his arm. "Graham, you're burning up. Go home and get some rest. I think you'll feel much better after you've had some sleep."

Graham nodded slowly. "Right. You're absolutely right. I'm sorry I've disturbed you. Thank you."

"Of course," Mary Margaret said softly, watching as he left the classroom, his steps heavy with uncertainty.

(Enchanted Forest)

The chamber was cold, its air thick with the weight of ambition and cruelty. The Evil Queen stood before her gilded mirror, her reflection as sharp and unforgiving as the crown atop her head. The Huntsman, silent and stoic, knelt before her throne, his presence like that of a caged animal forced into submission. Her gaze raked over him, a predator appraising prey, though she knew better. He was no lamb. The wolves that raised him had seen to that.

"You're a tortured one, aren't you?" she purred, stepping closer, her gown trailing across the polished floor. Her voice carried a mixture of amusement and condescension. "Is this because your parents abandoned you to the wolves?"

The Huntsman's lips tightened, his silence a shield. "Those weren't my parents," he finally replied, his tone low and steady. "All they did was give birth to me. The wolves are my family."

"Wolves, indeed." She circled him, a serpent coiling around its prey. "I've always believed there are two kinds of people: wolves and sheep. Those who kill and those who get killed. And you, Huntsman, you are most certainly a wolf."

His eyes rose to meet hers, his expression unreadable. "Why am I here?"

Her lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'd like you to kill someone for me. Can you do that?"

"I kill for me," he replied, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Why would I do anything for you?"

The Queen's laughter was a soft, dangerous thing. "Because I have so much to offer. A place at my court. You'd become my official huntsman, awash in luxury, wanting for nothing."

The Huntsman's expression hardened. "I'm not interested in being a pet. This place is a cage."

Her smile faltered for a moment before she regained her composure. "You'd be free to roam as you pleased," she countered smoothly. "And what I need is no small task. My prey is beloved by all the kingdom. I need someone who won't be blinded by that. Someone without compassion. Someone who'll have no qualms carving a heart out and bringing it back for my collection."

"That's me," he said simply, his words a challenge.

"As I suspected," she said, satisfaction flickering in her dark eyes. "Now tell me: What will it take? What do you want? There must be something."

The Huntsman straightened, his voice steady as he made his demand. "Outlaw the hunting of wolves. They are to be left alone. They are to be protected."

The Queen's brow arched, her smile curling back into place. "Simple enough," she said.

The tension in the room thickened as the Huntsman asked, "So, who do you want me to kill?"

The forest was alive with the sound of rustling leaves and distant birdcalls, a stark contrast to the deadly silence that hung between the Huntsman and Snow White. She followed behind him, her steps cautious, her gaze darting toward the trees as if seeking an escape route. The Huntsman led her deeper into the woods, his movements deliberate, his expression cold. The shadows of the canopy played tricks on the forest floor, shifting and swaying as Snow White studied her surroundings. Her grip tightened around the strap of her satchel, her mind racing. Finally, unable to bear the silence, she reached into her bag and withdrew two apples.

She offered one to the Huntsman, her gesture a small attempt at breaking through his icy exterior. The Huntsman barely glanced at her before continuing forward. His indifference stung, but Snow White pressed on, forcing herself to speak, hoping for some glimmer of humanity from the man she feared would end her life. When his reply came, it was brief and clipped, the words doing little to soothe her growing unease. And then, without warning, she saw it: the truth in his eyes, the grim determination that revealed his intentions. Her heart raced as realization struck. She couldn't wait any longer.

Reaching down, her fingers closed around a sturdy branch lying on the forest floor. With a burst of desperate strength, she swung it at him, the crack of wood against his armor reverberating through the trees. The Huntsman staggered but remained standing, his expression a mix of surprise and respect. Before he could recover, Snow White turned and fled, her feet pounding against the earth as she ran deeper into the woods. Behind her, the Huntsman straightened, brushing off the blow as if it were nothing. His wolf companion, watching silently from the shadows, let out a mournful howl.

The hunt had begun, and Snow White's chance of survival now depended on her wits, her will, and the fragile hope that somewhere in the Huntsman's heart, there might still be mercy.

(Storybrooke)

Emma stood behind her desk, flipping through a file before tossing it onto Graham's desk with a sigh. She picked up a dart from the nearby table, aimed for the dartboard on the wall, and threw. The dart missed its target, clattering to the floor. "Great," Emma muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

The door swung open, and Harry stepped in with Toothless trailing close behind. Toothless shook himself, scattering loose bits of foliage across the floor. Emma straightened, raising an eyebrow. "Harry, what's with the dramatic entrance? And... your wolf's tracking mud everywhere."

"Yeah, well, we've had a morning," Harry said, his tone sharp. He brushed past her, leaning against Graham's desk. "We found Graham out in the woods."

Emma froze, the dart still in her hand. "Graham? What was he doing out there?"

"Chasing a wolf. Not this one, obviously," Harry replied, gesturing to Toothless, who snorted indignantly. "Something's off with him, Emma. He's acting... weird."

"Weird how?"

Harry hesitated. "Like he's remembering things that don't make sense. He was talking about dreams, past lives... stuff that doesn't add up."

Emma frowned. "Past lives? Did you ask him if he's been reading Henry's book?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't need to. Whatever's going on, it's messing with him. And whatever he saw out there didn't help."

Emma crossed her arms, concern flickering in her eyes. "Okay. So what do you think it means?"

"I don't know yet," Harry admitted. "But I've got a bad feeling. You might want to keep an eye on him."

Before Emma could respond, the door opened again, and Regina entered, her heels clicking against the tile. Regina's eyes scanned the room, her lips curving into a thin smile as she spotted Emma. "Our taxes always hard at work, I see," she remarked, her voice dripping with condescension.

Emma's posture stiffened. "Graham isn't here. I assumed he took a sick day—with you."

Regina's smile didn't falter. "Oh, so you're aware of us? Good. That's why I'm here. Because I'm also aware of your relationship with him."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I don't have a relationship with him."

Regina's gaze hardened. "Oh? So, nothing's ever happened between the two of you? You forget, Miss Swan, I have eyes everywhere."

"Nothing that meant anything," Emma replied evenly, though her jaw tightened.

"Well, of course not," Regina said, taking a step closer. "Because you're incapable of feeling anything for anyone. There's a reason you're alone, isn't there?"

Harry, who had been leaning silently against the desk, straightened at Regina's words. "That's enough," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Regina barely spared him a glance. "Stay out of this Harry."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Emma's life is none of your business, Regina."

Regina turned back to Emma, ignoring him. "All due respect, the way I live my life is my business. But it becomes my concern when it infringes on my life. Stay away from Graham. You may think you're doing nothing, but you're putting thoughts in his head. Thoughts that are not in his best interest. You are leading him on a path to self-destruction."

Emma met Regina's gaze, her voice steady. "All due respect, Regina, but you don't get to tell me how to live my life."

Regina's smile was cold. "Consider this your warning. Stay away."

With that, she turned on her heel and left, her presence lingering like a storm cloud. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the Mills house as Graham approached the door. His steps were purposeful but hesitant, his mind swirling with flashes of memories that weren't his—or at least, they didn't feel like they belonged to the life he knew. His hand trembled slightly as he pressed the doorbell. Henry answered almost immediately, his curious eyes wide as he saw the sheriff standing there. Without wasting time, Graham explained why he'd come, his voice a mix of urgency and uncertainty.

Inside Henry's room, the boy eagerly retrieved the storybook, flipping its pages to find the answers Graham sought. As Henry explained the Huntsman's tale, the room felt heavy with revelation. Each word pieced together fragments of Graham's visions—Snow White's terrified eyes, the wolf's howls, and the Queen's cold grip on his heart. Henry's certainty was unshakable, and his explanations were logical in a way that shouldn't have been possible. Graham's breath hitched as he stared at an illustration of the Evil Queen standing before her vault. He'd seen this before—in dreams, or perhaps in the flickering memories that now surfaced like ghosts.

The wolf had howled at the vault, and Graham knew, without question, that his heart was inside. With a sudden burst of resolve, Graham left Henry's room. His footsteps echoed as he hurried down the stairs and out the door, his mind focused on the vault and the answers it held. Outside the Mills' house, Emma leaned against her car, her arms crossed as she spoke with Harry. Toothless sat nearby, his sharp eyes following every movement. The sound of footsteps drew their attention, and they turned to see Graham approaching, his expression strained but determined.

Emma intercepted him before he could pass. She could see the turmoil in his eyes, the way his shoulders were tight with tension. She asked him what was going on, her voice steady despite her growing concern. Graham's answer was as bewildering as it was unsettling—he believed his heart was missing, and the wolf was guiding him to find it. Emma tried to reason with him, pressing her hand against his chest to prove his heart was still there, beating and real. For a moment, it seemed like her words might ground him, but then Graham froze, his gaze fixed on something behind her.

Emma turned just in time to see the wolf—its dark fur shimmering in the fading light, its piercing eyes locked on Graham. Without a word, Graham took off after the creature, his strides long and determined. Emma called after him but gave chase, unwilling to let him go alone. Harry rolled his eyes, "Here we go again." he muttered as he and Toothless chased after Emma and Graham.

The wolf led them through the winding streets of Storybrooke, its movements swift and purposeful. The town's edges blurred into the forest, the dense trees swallowing the pair as they pursued their quarry. The air was thick with tension, every snap of a branch and rustle of leaves amplifying Emma's unease. Eventually, the wolf vanished into the shadows, leaving Graham and Emma standing at the edge of the Storybrooke Graveyard. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by Emma's labored breathing as she tried to keep up. Harry and Toothless tailed behind until they stopped near Emma to catch their breath.

Graham moved forward, his eyes scanning the rows of headstones until they landed on a stone structure partially obscured by overgrown vines. It was the vault—the same one he'd seen in Henry's book and in his memories. Emma hesitated, watching as Graham approached the vault with a mix of wonder and desperation. He insisted his heart was inside, his voice cracking under the weight of his conviction. Emma argued, trying to pull him back to reason, but his determination was unshakable. With a resigned sigh, Emma joined him. She tugged at the door, her strength useless against its lock.

Frustration bubbling over, she kicked it with all her might, the old wood splintering under her boot. The door creaked open, revealing the dark interior. The air inside was cold and damp, the faint scent of earth and decay filling the space. Graham stepped forward, his breath hitching as he took in the sight before him. Harry didn't like this idea. He stayed with Toothless while Emma and Graham went deeper inside.

It was time to uncover the truth.

(Enchanted Forest)

The forest was eerily quiet, the sunlight filtering through the thick canopy casting shifting patterns on the ground. Snow White sat on a moss-covered rock, her movements deliberate as she scribbled on a piece of parchment. Her pen strokes were firm, though her eyes betrayed the weight of her emotions. The sound of footsteps breaking twigs reached her ears, but she didn't flinch. The Huntsman emerged from the shadows, his imposing figure a sharp contrast to her vulnerability. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him. Despite the tension, Snow White did not stop writing.

She finished the letter with a flourish, folded it carefully, and addressed him. The letter in her hand trembled slightly as she extended it toward him. He hesitated, skepticism evident in his expression. His reputation as the Queen's enforcer was one of ruthlessness, but something in her calm defiance gave him pause. He read the letter, the words cutting deeper than any blade ever could. His grip tightened around the hilt of his knife. Snow White did not cower; instead, she met his gaze with unwavering resolve. The blade glinted in the faint light as he raised it—but instead of striking, he turned his attention to a nearby stalk.

With a few precise movements, he fashioned a whistle, drilling holes into it with careful skill. Confusion flickered across Snow White's face as he handed it to her. "Sign this when you need help," he said, his tone firm but laced with an urgency she didn't understand.

She blinked at him, the weight of his words settling in. When he commanded her to run, she hesitated only for a moment before taking off, her figure disappearing into the dense woods. The Huntsman stood frozen, the whistle still warm in his hand. He couldn't return to the Queen empty-handed, but neither could he bring himself to deliver Snow White's heart. The rustle of leaves drew his attention to a nearby stag, its graceful form standing still in the underbrush. An idea began to form, his resolve hardening as he prepared to face the Queen's wrath.

The dark halls of the Evil Queen's palace were as cold and unwelcoming as her demeanor. The Huntsman waited outside her chambers, the tension coiled tightly in his chest. A guard exited, motioning for him to enter. She appeared, draped in black, her presence commanding and severe. The weight of her gaze fell on him as she demanded to know if Snow White was dead. He presented the bag containing the stag's heart, carefully keeping his expression neutral. But he had one final act of defiance. Before relinquishing the bag, he produced Snow White's letter. The Queen's curiosity was piqued, though she masked it with disdain.

She ordered him to read it aloud, her lips curling into a cold smile as she listened. As the Huntsman read the letter, Snow White's words filled the chamber like a ghostly echo. Her message was one of sorrow, forgiveness, and a plea for compassion—a stark contrast to the hatred that consumed the Queen. For a brief moment, her expression flickered, a shadow of something unspoken crossing her features. She snatched the letter from him and approached the fireplace. Without hesitation, she threw it into the flames, her movements sharp and deliberate. "Don't tell me you're becoming a sheep," she sneered, her tone laced with venom.

The Huntsman's jaw tightened, but he remained silent. The Queen moved toward the neighboring room, cradling the heart as if it were a precious relic. She placed it in an ornate casket, her movements ritualistic. As she turned to the wall of drawers in her vault, she hesitated, waiting for the magic to respond. But nothing happened. Her fury ignited like a spark to dry kindling. She ripped the heart from the casket, her eyes blazing as she stormed back toward the Huntsman. "This isn't her heart!" she bellowed, her voice cutting through the still air like a blade. "What did you do?"

Her rage was palpable, but the Huntsman remained resolute, standing firm against the storm of her anger. As punishment, The Evil Queen ripped the Huntsmen's heart out of his chest. Now he was her slave to be controled; a pet. And all she had to do to keep him in line, was squeeze the heart and he would feel the crushing pain.

(Storybrooke)

The crypt loomed in the dim light, its stone walls cloaked in shadow and the air thick with the scent of age and decay. Sheriff Graham moved through the cold chamber with a restless urgency, his footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. The sarcophagus in the center dominated the room, its inscription carved with an almost sacred reverence: Henry Mills. Beloved Father.

But Graham wasn't here to mourn. His hands trailed along the walls, pressing against every crevice, every uneven surface, searching for something hidden—something vital. His breaths came in short bursts, each one carrying the weight of his growing desperation. The room seemed to press in around him, suffocating and unyielding. He knocked over urns, scanned the walls again, and even tried shifting the sarcophagus itself, but nothing yielded. The silence around him became almost unbearable, broken only by the sound of Emma's cautious steps behind him.

Still, he pressed on, fueled by a need he couldn't quite explain, a hollow ache in his chest that he thought—hoped—might be filled here. Somewhere in this crypt, he believed, lay the answer to the void he felt inside. The moment shattered as footsteps approached from outside, each one deliberate and measured. The echo carried through the chamber, and an icy chill crept into the air. Graham froze, his instincts bristling as Emma stepped back toward the entrance.

The faint scent of roses wafted in as the figure appeared, her dark silhouette unmistakable against the light filtering through the crypt's doorway. Regina Mills stood there, her presence as commanding as ever, her sharp gaze sweeping across the scene with a mix of suspicion and quiet fury. The silence that followed was heavier than words could have been. When the confrontation came, it was swift and heated—a clash of emotions and wills. Emma's defiance met Regina's venom, and Graham found himself caught in the middle, his own turmoil boiling to the surface. As the tension rose to its peak, the crypt itself seemed to hold its breath.

The air thickened with something unspoken, something ancient and dark. But when it was over, Graham followed Emma into the fading light, leaving Regina alone with her secrets and her father's grave. When the crypt fell silent once more, Regina lingered. She placed the flowers she'd brought on the sarcophagus, her movements deliberate and almost tender. Then, with a glance around to ensure she was alone, she pressed her hand to the stone surface. The sound of grinding stone filled the chamber as the sarcophagus slid aside, revealing a hidden staircase that spiraled into the depths below. Without hesitation, Regina descended.

The air grew colder the farther she went, and when she reached the bottom, the flickering light of a single torch revealed a vault lined with countless drawers. Each one seemed to hum faintly, pulsing with an otherworldly energy. Her hand hovered over the drawers, each second stretching into eternity until she found the one she sought. The drawer slid open with a creak, revealing a casket nestled within. Carefully, almost reverently, she lifted the lid.

Inside lay a heart, faintly glowing, pulsing with an unnatural light. Regina stared down at it, her expression unreadable. She reached out, her fingers brushing the smooth, cold surface of the enchanted heart. This was her weapon. Her control. Her power. And she wasn't about to lose it.

The light inside the sheriff's office was soft and golden, a warm contrast to the tension that lingered in the room. Harry sat on the edge of one of the desks, idly scratching Toothless behind the ears as the wolf sprawled lazily on the floor, his tail flicking occasionally. Emma leaned against the desk across from them, an ice pack pressed to her cheek. Graham stood nearby, the iodine and cotton swabs on the desk beside him as he finished tending to her cut. The sting of the antiseptic was nothing compared to the storm of emotions that lingered between them.

"You're lucky that punch didn't break anything," Harry remarked, breaking the silence. His tone was light, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes as he glanced at Emma.

Emma smirked faintly, though the motion made her wince. "I've had worse."

Graham, however, seemed lost in his own thoughts, his hands still for a moment before he set down the swab. His movements were deliberate, as though grounding himself in the simple task of cleaning and bandaging the wound. Emma slowly walks over to him and then leans in kissing Graham. The kiss evokes Sheriff Graham to remember the events of his life in the Enchanted Forest previously shown in flashbacks in the order they'd occurred. Toothless let out a soft growl, lifting his head to peer at Graham with an inquisitive look. The wolf's instincts were sharp, and he tilted his head, sensing the sheriff's unease.

"Something's changed," Harry murmured, his gaze narrowing as he studied Graham. "You're not acting like yourself."

Graham looked up at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he hesitated, as though unsure whether to speak. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I remember," he said, his voice low but steady.

Emma's brow furrowed. "Remember what?"

Graham's gaze shifted to her, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes—something raw and unfiltered. "Everything," he said quietly. "I remember everything."

The weight of his words hung in the air, thick with meaning. Toothless let out a low rumble, his tail thumping against the floor as though he, too, sensed the significance of the moment.

But the moment was cut when Graham suddenly doubled over in pain; like he was having a heart attack. Harry rushed to call 911 but it was too late, Graham had collapsed onto the ground. Emma shook him; trying to get him to wake up but he was already dead.

What was believed to be a heart attack was actually Regina crushing Graham's heart to dust. If she couldn't have Graham then no one could.