When you first arrived in Storybrooke, everyone treated you like you were crazy.

You’d stumbled into town on a foggy evening, drenched from the rain, insisting that something was wrong—that you couldn’t remember how you got here, that the world outside the town line didn’t feel real. You tried to explain the flashes in your mind—dark forests, gold crowns, a fire that never went out—but no one listened.

No one except her.

Emma Swan.

She found you that night sitting on a bench outside Granny’s, shaking and confused. “Rough day?” she asked, handing you a cup of hot cocoa—extra cinnamon, her way.

You told her everything, expecting the usual pitying look. But instead, she frowned thoughtfully, like she’d heard something that made sense to her.

“People come through here all the time,” she said carefully. “But not everyone talks about… curses.”

You laughed weakly. “So you think I’m lying?”

She shook her head. “No. I think you might be telling the truth.”