She stood at the edge of the pier, hands shoved deep into her pockets, watching the waves roll in. The same waves she’d watched every morning since she’d come to Storybrooke. The same pull in her chest she could never explain.

Behind her, the marina was quiet. A few boats bobbed in their slips, their rigging clinking softly against metal masts. The smell of diesel and wet wood hung in the air. The silence was comfortable. Familiar.