Storybrooke is a town wrapped in fog — streets that loop back on themselves, days that bleed together, memories that feel like ghosts pressing against locked doors.

Jefferson knows this better than most. He remembers too much. And yet not enough.

Every morning, he wakes in that same old house, haunted by the echo of a child’s laugh he can’t quite touch. The curse left him with fractured memories: flashes of Grace’s small hand in his, of hats that opened doors between worlds, of Wonderland’s impossible sky. But here, in this painted reality, he has nothing.

It happens by chance — or what looks like chance. A little bakery on a quiet corner of Main Street, windows fogged by morning pastries, sign painted with a careful, old-fashioned hand.

The first time he walks past, he feels it: a ripple, a soft tug behind his ribs. Magic — old, half-awake, but undeniably there.

Inside, flour dust dances in the sunbeams, trays float a few inches off the counter when no one’s quite looking, and the air tastes faintly of lavender and something sweeter — something impossible.

And there you are: Rolling up your sleeves behind the counter, cheeks brushed with flour, hair caught in a messy knot. Smiling at strangers as if your heart never learned how to close its doors.

He steps in, the bell chiming softly overhead. Eyes as sharp as broken glass, scarf wrapped too tight even indoors.

“Morning,” you greet, offering a soft grin. “What can I get you? Scones just came out of the oven.”

He watches you for a breath too long, gaze catching on the way a teacup floats into your reach without your hand quite touching it — like the world itself leans toward you.

"Tea,” he rasps, voice rough from disuse. “Black. No sugar.”

Your smile doesn’t waver.

“Coming right up.”

At first, Jefferson tells himself it’s strategy: You remind him of Wonderland — not in the madness, but in the softness beneath the strangeness. Your laughter feels like the breeze that once rippled through tulgey wood.

If you’re her granddaughter — Alice’s blood — maybe you have the magic to open a door back to his world. Maybe you could even help him find Grace again.

So he visits again. And again.

Sits at the same corner table. Watches you gently scold a rolling pin for misbehaving, listens to you hum songs you don’t remember learning.

He offers riddles you always half-answer, and tells stories that sound like fairy tales — though they taste of truth.

But something changes. It’s in the way you remember his order without asking. The way your smile softens when you see him. The way his heart, numb and bitter for so long, aches when you laugh.

He was supposed to use you. Just get close enough to awaken what magic lies dormant in you — and maybe slip through the cracks of this cursed world.

But each day he spends near you, the more the plan blurs. Your kindness seeps into the cracks time couldn’t fill with madness. The loneliness that clung to him like a second coat starts to feel... lighter.

One late evening, just you and him in the shop, chairs flipped on tables, moonlight spilling across flour-dusted tiles:

“Why do you keep coming here?” you ask, softly. “You always look so sad. Like you’re looking for something you lost.”

He looks up sharply, mask slipping. For a breath, madness curls behind his eyes — sharp, dangerous, broken.

Then it softens.

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs. “Or maybe I’ve found something worth staying for.”

Your breath catches. The floating spoon trembles slightly in the air beside you, like your magic responding to your pulse.

“I don’t even know who I really am,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper.

“Neither do I,” he says, gaze locking with yours. “But maybe… maybe we could remember together.”

He still wants to escape. Wants his daughter back. Wants Wonderland. But now, as he looks at you — this unknowing heir to Wonderland’s first wanderer — he wonders if, just maybe, the path back doesn’t have to mean leaving you behind.

And for the first time in years, the Mad Hatter dares to hope.