Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The forest was burning with twilight, the last silver threads of sun tangled in the black lace of the trees. Amara ran, her breath ragged, her dress and cloak torn by the branches that clawed at her like desperate hands. 

“Please - don’t let it be too late,” she whispered, the words lost to the rising wind.

The air crackled. The magic of the curse was coming, she could feel it - thick and heavy, the taste of ash and sorrow on her tongue. But she could still sense him - the Goblin King. His presence pulsed like a heartbeat in the labyrinth beyond the clearing. 

She gasped slightly at the sight of the castle rising through the mist, dark marvel like something half forgotten in a dream.  Tall spires of stone clawed at the bruised sky, their surfaces slick with ivy and thorn. The great windows glowed faintly gold, like the last light of a dying sun caught behind broken glass. The maze that surrounded it twisted outward in endless, spiraling paths — walls of rose-bramble and cold marble, beautiful and dangerous all at once. Statues of creatures peered out from between the hedges, their faces cracked, their eyes hollow.

“I’m here!” She cried, her voice breaking as she stumbled forward, her dark curls wild around her pale face. She collided against the gnarled trunk of a tree at the edge, fingers scraping the rough bark. She was on a hill, the labyrinth stretched below her, vast and impenetrable, the castle at its heart like a secret she could almost touch.

“Please, open a path for me.” She whispered. “Take me to him.”

But the maze stayed silent, the thorns shivering in the rising wind, and above, the clouds began to churn — black and heavy, thick with the promise of the curse. 

“No, no, no! Open the path for me - don’t let the shadows take me from him. Hear my plea, hear my cry, before the curse falls and we say goodbye.”

And then, as if the labyrinth itself heard her, the thorned walls shuddered and parted — a narrow path splitting the maze in two, leading straight to the castle gates.

Amara didn’t hesitate. She ran. The wind tore at her hair, the sky darkened behind her, and she could taste the curse in her mouth. Her heart pounded, her breath came in ragged gasps, but she didn’t stop.

She shoved open the great doors of the castle, their hinges groaning like some ancient beast disturbed from slumber. Up the stone steps she flew, taking them two at a time, the sound of her boots echoing through the empty halls. She burst onto the balcony, the curse at her heels.

He stood there - tall, still, the stormlight glinting off the crystal sphere that hovered above his palm. His pale blonde hair whipped around his face in the wind. Slowly, he turned toward her, his eyes sharp, sorrowful, ancient. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, voice low, as if it pained him to speak. 

“I told you to wait for me.” She stepped forward. 

“Why?”

“So we could go home together - no.” Tears formed in her eyes. “You are my home, Jareth. I don’t know what my mother’s curse will do or where it will take us in this world of unhappy endings, but I do know I want to stand beside you.”

His fingers curled slightly, the crystal flickering with inner light as the first ash of the curse began to fall around them. The storm churned above, swallowing the last shred of sky.

“Amara.” Her name on his lips was a promise and a goodbye all at once. “This curse will tear us apart.”

“Then we will find each other again.” She took another step, defiant even as tears blurred her vision. “I don’t care what world, what name, what face. I’ll find you, Jareth. I swear it.”

For one breath, the storm seemed to still — as if even the curse paused to hear her vow.

She reached for him, hand outstretched, fingers trembling. He mirrored her, their fingertips almost touching.

But the curse came faster.

The black clouds rolled like a tidal wave, swallowing the sky, devouring the light. The labyrinth, the King, the world she knew — all vanished beneath the storm.

And the last thing she heard was his voice, soft and broken:

“I’ll find you… in the dark. Wait for me, Amara.”

…

Sara jolted awake, heart hammering in her chest, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Words from her dream faded like smoke from her mind. 

She was at her desk. Papers stuck to her check where she’d fallen asleep and books were in the corner. Her pencil was on the floor. Her calendar read October 18th, 1983 — a date she’d set just last night. Outside the window, Storybrooke’s streets were empty under the cold dawn. 

“Sara.”

She turned. Her mom stood in the doorway, arms crossed with her silky robe. Did her mom put on lipstick? 

“How many times have I told you? You need to stop sleeping at your desk doing your homework last minute. You have a bed. Use it. You’ll ruin your neck and back sleeping like that.”

Sara blinked at disoriented, the edges of the dream—or was it a memory?—slipping from her grasp.

“Good morning to you, mom.” She murmured, rubbing her eyes. “I just…I guess I lost track of time.”

Her mom’s eyes softened. She stepped forward and gently peeled the paper from Sara’s cheek. The mayor’s hand, warm and careful, brushed her face..“You still have another two hours until you have to get ready for school. Do you want to go to bed?”

Sara hummed, already half asleep. Regina smiled faintly and pulled back the sheets. Sara slid beneath them, the familiar scent of home wrapping around her. Her mom pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a heartbeat, then closed the door behind her.

And somewhere deep inside, where the curse couldn’t quite reach, a promise waited. A voice in the dark.

Wait for me. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

“Henry Daniel Mills! I’m going to kill you.”

Her little brother’s eyes went wide as he scrambled away from the window and shrieked as she lunged after him. Both of them were still in their pajamas, the bed rumpled, toys and books strewn across the floor from his dramatic return.

“Henry!” Sara caught him around the stomach, hauling him close as he wriggled in her grip. “What were you thinking? Running away twice in two days? Do you have any idea how scared I was? I searched all over town for you!”

Henry twisted to look up at her, his grin fading just a little under her worried glare.

“I had to find my real mom, Sara.” He said, quieter now, though his excitement still bubbled at the edges. “And I did, Sara. She’s here. She’s really here.”

Sara sighed, her grip loosening, her heart torn between relief and frustration. “Henry… you can’t just run off like that. What if something had happened to you? You didn’t even let me come with you.”

“But you can’t! It’s the curse.”

Sara released Henry, ruffling his hair even as worry furrowed her brow. “You and that book.” She muttered and was surprised not to see it in his room. 

Ever since, his teacher, Mary Margaret, had given him the book, her brother was frantic to know about their family history and when was the last time they had left town or if anyone had left town. She told him that Ruby left but came back when her grandmother had the heart attack. But he didn’t believe her. 

Sara liked Mary Margaret. The teacher was kind, gentle, always with that soft smile that made Sara want to trust her. But ever since Henry brought home that book, everything felt different. And then Henry’s questions had shifted, sharpened — all about his birth mom. About the woman he believed was the Savior.

She understood about wanting to find his birth mom but he didn’t understand that he was hurting their mom’s feelings. 

“Henry, if this town was cursed, I’m pretty sure there would be signs.”

“But there is! It is real. The clock moved, Sara. The tower works again. That means the curse is breaking. Emma’s here. She’s the Savior.”

Sara hesitated, glancing out the window. The tower’s clock — its hands once frozen in place — ticked forward, steady and alive.

A part of her wanted to laugh it off, to tell him it was just coincidence, that someone had finally fixed that clock. But it would hurt her brother’s feelings. And maybe... maybe it was better to play along until he saw for himself that none of it was real.

She didn’t want to be the bad big sister. Not when their mother was already making him feel small — sending him to Archie, picking apart his beliefs.

Adopted or not, Henry was her little brother. And Sara?

Sara would always protect him.

“Go get ready for school. I’m going to walk you.”

“I’m not five, Sara.” Henry whined, flopping back onto his bed. 

“You ran away twice. I’m not taking my eyes off you. You have to wait till you are my age to sneak away from home so you can sneak off to a party or to meet a girlfriend.”
Henry wrinkled his nose. “Why would I want to run away to meet a girl?”

Sara smirked, ruffling his hair. “Like I said, wait till you’re my age. Then I’ll explain it to you.”

“But that’s in six years!”

She grinned, rising and heading for the door. “Exactly. So behave until then.”

Henry groaned. She closed the door with a fond smile and headed to the bathroom. 

Inside, she turned on the light and stared at her reflection. Long dark curls framed her pale face, her emerald green eyes clear but shadowed with the weight of too little sleep. 

Today was a new day.

She exhaled, trying to shake the heaviness that clung to her chest like fog. Another strange dream — or maybe the same one she always had — slipping from her memory like water through her fingers. It was always like this. The floating, the sense of being lost somewhere else… until she woke and landed without knowing how.

But she won’t let it affect her day again. After all, she promised her brother she would walk with him to school. 

…

This wasn’t what she had in mind though as she and her brother sat in the booth, watching Emma Swan at Granny’s. Sara knew those puppy eyes would be the end of her but there was a part of her that was curious to see her brother’s biological mom. 

Sara had been out looking for jobs the other day — of course she’d missed the big arrival. Now here was the woman at the center of Henry’s stories. The so-called Savior . His biological mom.

Emma Swan didn’t look much like the grainy mugshot that had been plastered across The Storybrooke Mirror . The newspaper hadn’t been kind — not with that headline about crashing into the town sign. But here in person? Emma was beautiful. Blonde hair falling in soft waves, red leather jacket scuffed at the sleeves, tired but striking.

Sara studied her, then glanced at Henry. Maybe he took after his father. Whoever he was.

Emma took the cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon and walked over to Sheriff Graham. “Look, the cocoa was a nice gesture and I am impressed that you guessed that I like cinnamon on my chocolate because most people don’t, but I am not here to flirt. So thank you, but no thank you.”

“I didn’t send it.”

“I did,” Henry spoke up. “I like cinnamon too.”

“Don’t you have school?”

“Duh. I’m ten. Walk with us.”

Emma blinked, caught off guard by the boy’s boldness. Sara couldn’t help but smirk a little, her brother has that habit on people.

“Henry,” Sara warned gently, sliding out of the booth and ruffling his hair.

But Henry wasn’t backing down. He stared up at Emma, determined. “Please? You’re here. That means something. I know it does.”

Emma hesitated, glancing at Sheriff Graham, who just raised a brow and sipped his coffee like he wasn’t getting involved.

“Look, kid…” Emma started, but there was no real edge in her voice.

“He just wants to walk,” Sara offered, stepping beside her brother. “And maybe… so do you. I know I do. We haven’t had a chance to meet. I’m Sara, Henry’s big sister.”

“Regina adopted another kid?”

“Ah, no. I’m sadly her biological kid.”

Emma let out a short, surprised laugh — the kind that slipped out before she could stop it. “ Sadly , huh?”

Sara shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket as they started toward the door. “You’ve met her, right? Then you understand.”

Henry grinned, clearly delighted that his sister and Emma were talking. “Sara’s the best. She always has my back, even when Mom’s being… well, Mom.”

Emma glanced between them as they stepped out into the morning light. “Sounds like you’ve had to do a lot of that.”

“Yeah. He’s worth it.”

They walked together, the breeze tugging at their hair, the town of Storybrooke somehow feeling just a little less frozen than it had the day before.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Emma said, side-eyeing Sara with a hint of a smirk, “I’d think you believe in this whole curse thing too.”

Sara hesitated, the weight of dreams she couldn’t remember brushing against her thoughts. “I believe… that Henry needs people who’ll listen to him. That’s what I believe.”

Emma went quiet at that, thoughtful. The clock tower chimed in the distance.

“Come on,” Sara said, bumping Henry’s shoulder gently. “Let’s get you to school before you rope Emma into adopting stray puppies or something.”

Henry laughed, “No way. We have to talk about Operation Cobra.” 

“Cobra? That name has nothing to do with fairytales.” Emma said.

“Exactly. It’s a code name to throw the Queen off the trail.”

Emma glanced at Sara in concern and she shrugged with a smile. She was just playing along but the thought that Henry thought their mom was the Evil Queen was ridiculous. 

“So everyone here is a fairy tale character. They just don’t know it.”

“That’s the curse. Time’s been frozen - until you got here.”

“So who are you then?” Emma asked Sara. “Besides being the Evil Queen’s daughter?”

“She’s Snow White’s half sister.” Henry answered. “So that makes her your aunt.” 

Sara’s eyes widened. That wasn’t what she had expected Henry to say. How much information was in this book of his? 

“My aunt is a kid?”

“I’m sixteen,” Sara said quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

“Don’t you have school too then?” Emma asked, glancing at her casual clothes.

“I got my GED. I didn’t really want to be in school anymore.” She casually told her. Not everyone in town knew the truth. “Since I don’t really babysit Henry until he is done with school, I’m looking for a job right now.”

“It shouldn’t be difficult being the mayor’s daughter.”

“More like if there are any openings. Mom doesn’t want me to waitress at Granny’s unless it is the last alternative. She wants me to expand and network.”

Emma hummed. “Not really a sign of being the Evil Queen. She just wants you to find the best job.”

“More like she wants me to work at her office and learn how to be the next mayor,” Sara said, rolling her eyes. “Not exactly my dream.”

Henry cut in eagerly, as if trying to bring them back to what mattered most to him. “That’s the curse! She’s making you follow in her footsteps, just like in the Enchanted Forest. But it’s not really who you are.”

Sara glanced at her little brother. “And who am I in this book?”

Henry’s eyes lit up, as if he had been waiting for her to ask. “You’re Amara,” he said, his voice low, like the name itself was magic. “Snow White’s half sister. You’re a princess too. The Evil Queen and King Leopold had you in spring and the Evil Queen doesn’t want you to remember being family with Snow White.”

Sara blinked at him, caught off guard by the conviction in his voice. Amara . The name tugged at something deep inside, like a forgotten song she couldn’t quite place.

“Henry,” she began, meaning to gently steer him back to reality. But before she could, he added -

“You’re important, Sara. You’re important in this world too. You’re gonna help break the curse.”

Sara opened her mouth, but for a second, no words came. That name. That strange pull in her chest. She forced a smile. “That’s a pretty cool story, little brother. But I think my superpower is just keeping you out of trouble.”

Henry grinned, undeterred. “You’ll see.”

Emma watched them both, brow furrowed in curiosity, as they continued toward the school. Sara shrugged. Henry continued to talk and pulled out pages that he said he ripped out of the book. It was the last few pages and Sara noticed a drawing of a baby girl in a man’s arms. That was supposed to be Emma?

She ignored the back-and-forth between Emma and Henry, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Henry believed she was Snow White’s sister — and, apparently, Emma’s aunt. Disney definitely didn’t put that in their movies.

They reached the school, the same scene unfolding as always. Kids tumbled off buses, others hopped out of their parents’ cars, backpacks swinging. Mary Margaret stood by the entrance, her familiar warm smile in place as she shepherded the younger kids inside. Off to the side, clusters of teenagers lounged on the benches — some Sara called acquittances, others who barely noticed her. The usual groups. The usual morning.

The building itself stood just as it always had: solid, dependable, a little too old-fashioned for her taste. Red brick walls stretched high, lined with white-trimmed windows that caught the dull gray of the sky. That checkerboard pattern near the roof snagged her attention like it always did — as if someone had tried to give the place character and only half-succeeded. 

The courtyard buzzed with the familiar rhythm: kids rushing through doors, others lingering at the picnic tables, swapping gossip or answers to homework. Her gaze drifted to the benches where the older kids gathered, their voices low, their world closed off. The whole place felt small, as if the school’s neat rows of windows and tall fence could keep the rest of the world at bay.

“Sara!” A voice called out. It was Alice — her blonde hair in messy pigtails, fingers fumbling as she tried to redo them, a pen clenched between her teeth. She was sitting on a bench near the edge of the courtyard, close to where the trees began and far from the other groups. Typical Alice — always a little on the outskirts.

Sara glanced at Emma and Mary Margaret, offering a small wave before stepping away to join her friend.

“Alice, how many times do I have to tell you?” Sara said, grinning despite herself. “Stop holding your pen in your mouth when it’s open. You’re going to end up with ink marks on your face again.”

Alice pulled the pen out, inspecting it like it had betrayed her. “It’s fine. Probably. Can you help me with my braid while I finish forging a signature for Principal Horseshit?” 

“Principal Hoffman,” Sara corrected but walked behind her and ran her fingers through her friend’s tangled curly. “Did you forget to comb it last night?”

“No, I just got lazy with braiding last night.”

“So why are you forging your sister's signature again?” 

Alice let out a dramatic sigh, pulling out a crumpled slip of paper from her bag. “Because I accidentally forgot to hand over the permission slip so that I could watch Romeo & Juliet .”

“Which version?”

“Leo Dicaprio.”

Sara raised an eyebrow, gently working through a stubborn knot. “Alice, you’re gonna get caught one of these days when you forge a paper that will get you in trouble.”

“That’s future Alice’s problem.” Alice grinned, glancing around to make sure no teachers were looking. “Besides, I’m practically a professional at this point.”

Sara shook her head, amused despite herself. “You are a terrible influence.”

“And yet you got yourself a GED and no longer have to attend this horrible school with me.”

Sara smirked, finishing the braid and tying it off with the elastic from around her wrist. “There. You’re slightly less of a disaster now. And you could do it too. You’re smarter than me.”

“No just crazier.” Alice shoved the paper into her bag. “So... what’s up with you walking in with her ?” She nodded subtly toward Emma in the distance.

“Henry’s biological mom. She seems cool and is not afraid of my mom.”

Alice whistled. “She sure is hot.”

“And way out of your league, not to mention you are under age.”

“Ruin my fantasy, why don’t you. Straight women are always hotter.”

Sara laughed, shaking her head. “Alice, you have got to stop crushing on unavailable women…and men.”

“Can’t help it if Storybrooke is severely lacking in options,” Alice said with a wink. “And besides, I didn’t say I was gonna do anything. Just appreciating the view.”

“Uh-huh,” Sara said, crossing her arms and glancing back at Emma, who was deep in conversation with Mary Margaret. “Well, appreciate her quietly before I have to spray you.”

Sara noticed a group of girls sitting nearby, whispering and glancing in their direction. She caught her name, carried softly on their breath and frowned.

Alice followed her gaze. “Ignore them,” she said gently. “They’re just bored and want to spread more gossip about you.”

“Gossip is what led me to leave.”

“You sound sad about that.”

“No…just missing you. I made a deal with mom that I would find a job as soon as I passed the GED test. But it’s a lot more difficult.” 

“You’ve got the grit to make it work. And I’m here, okay? You’re not alone.”

“Thanks, Alice. I’ll probably stop by Mr. Gold’s.”

Alice shook her head, “and you call me crazy.”

“What? He’s actually nice once you get to know him.”

Alice snorted, stuffing her forged note deeper into her bag. “Nice? Sara, he literally terrifies half the town.”

Sara smirked. “And that’s why people leave him alone. He’s fair. If you don’t cross him, you’re fine. Besides, I’m just looking. Maybe he knows something. He owns half the businesses around here anyway.”

“Yeah, and the other half owe him favors or their firstborn child.” Alice made a face. “You’re braver than me.”

Sara shrugged, glancing toward the school doors as the bell rang in the distance. “I’ve got to try, right? I can’t keep sitting around waiting for the ‘perfect job’ to fall in my lap.”

Alice softened, nudging her shoulder. “That’s what I mean. You’re gonna figure it out. And if not… we can always run away and join the circus.”

Sara laughed. “If I end up in a sparkly leotard, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal. You’d look hot in sparkles anyway.”

“Stop it before I really do have to spray you.” Sara grinned, feeling a little lighter as she walked her friend to the doors.

…

Enchanted Forest

The air smelled of wildflowers and new grass, the soft breeze carrying the first warmth of spring. Regina clutched her father’s hand, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as another wave of pain overtook her. Henry  knelt at her side, his voice low as he hummed the familiar tune — the lullaby that once soothed her nightmares, now offered to anchor her through the storm of childbirth.

The midwife worked swiftly in the clearing, her hands sure despite the unusual setting. They had only meant to walk among the trees, to escape the castle’s heavy walls for a moment’s peace. But the child — this child she never expected, never wanted — had chosen to come now, beneath the open sky.

Regina squeezed her eyes shut as the next contraction seized her. She had been so certain the moon tea would prevent this. She had taken it after those cold, dutiful nights with Leopold, when she lay still and dreamed of Daniel’s touch instead. A child… she had only ever wanted a child with him. A life with him. 

But that dream died with him, because of Snow White. Because of her betrayal.

When she first discovered the pregnancy, she had locked herself away and wept until her throat burned and her tears dried on her cheeks. Her father had found her crumpled on the floor, and gathered her close as if she were still that little girl frightened of the dark. 

“This is a blessing, Regina,” he had whispered. “You and the king may not share true love, but this child will bring love into your life.”

But could it? Could love bloom from this? Another wave of pain tore through her, and she bit back a cry, her heart aching with more than just labor. She was so tired of loss. So tired of loneliness. And as the forest hushed around them, she wondered — dared to wonder — if maybe, just maybe, her father was right.

The cries broke the stillness of the forest: small, sharp, insistent. The midwife’s hands were gentle but quick, wrapping the tiny, squirming bundle in soft linen. Regina could only stare, breathless, as the woman turned and placed the child in her arms.

Amara.

The name whispered through her mind before she could stop it, like it had always been waiting there, just beneath the surface.

Regina stared down at the baby girl. Dark curls damp with birth clung to her small head, and her skin was flushed with new life. The baby’s dark lashes fluttered, and then — eyes opened. Not the dull gray of a newborn. Not blue, not hazel. Green. Vivid, impossible green, like sunlight through spring leaves after rain. A color no child should have at birth. A color that seemed to see right through her, as if the baby carried secrets too ancient for words.

Her father’s humming faltered as he, too, saw the eyes. He smiled softly and kissed Regina on the forehead, whispering to her that she did a good job. Regina clutched her daughter closer, her heart aching with wonder and fear all at once. The child she never wanted, yet could not imagine losing.

The cries of the newborn still echoed softly through the clearing when sudden thunderous hoofbeats shattered the quiet. Regina’s breath caught as a figure burst through the trees — King Leopold, racing toward them on his black stallion, his guards close behind, urgency blazing in his eyes.

He slid from the saddle without hesitation and rushed to Regina’s side. His face was pale, sweat gleaming on his brow, but when his gaze fell on the small bundle cradled in her arms, the shock melted into wonder and awe. 

“Regina,” His voice was thick with disbelief and tenderness. He moved to the other side of her and cupped her cheek, his eyes never leaving the baby’s vivid green eyes. Then, almost reverently, he bent down and kissed Regina with overwhelming passion that surprised her.

“A daughter,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

“You are not disappointed that she’s not a son?”

“No. I have another beautiful daughter. How can I be disappointed?”

There was no anger, no disappointment — only the fierce love of a father who had just been given a miracle.

Regina’s heart tightened as she watched him, feeling an unexpected hope bloom amidst the exhaustion and pain. Perhaps, just perhaps, this child could be a new beginning for them all.

“Her name is Amara.”

The King smiled softly. “Welcome to the world, Princess Amara.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The bell over the door gave a soft chime as Sara stepped inside Mr. Gold’s shop. The air was filled with the familiar scent of aged wood, leather, and the subtle trace of something older—something magical. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, catching on the glint of gold and silver trinkets that lined the shelves.

Mr. Gold looked up from a pocket watch he’d been inspecting, his expression brightening the moment he saw her. “Miss Sara. What a pleasant surprise.”

Sara managed a small smile, though her nerves made her heart thrum in her chest. “Hi, Mr. Gold. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all, dear.” He set the watch down with care. “What brings you by?”

Sara drew in a breath. “I was wondering… if you might be looking for help. I’m looking for a job.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes, pity, perhaps, or concern, but it vanished behind his usual calm, polite mask.

“Ah,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m afraid I don't need any extra help at the moment. Business is slow, you know how it is.”

“Oh right.” Sara’s shoulders sagged, though she tried not to let the disappointment show. “I thought because the holidays are coming that you may need help at the shop or maybe even collecting rent.”

“That’s kind of you, Sara.” Mr. Gold tilted his head, watching her with that sharp gaze that always seemed to see more than he let on. “You’ve always had a fondness for music, haven’t you?”

Sara blinked surprised. “Well, doesn't everybody?”

“Not many teenagers spend hours practicing every instrument they can get their hands on.” His smile softened. “Perhaps you should think about that. Sometimes the right door isn’t the most obvious one.”

He let the words linger, his expression kind but touched with something deeper—something knowing.

“If I hear of anything, you’ll be the first to tell.”

She nodded, managing a more genuine smile this time. “Thank you, Mr. Gold. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, dear. Always.”

As she turned to leave, the bell chimed again, but Sara paused at the threshold. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the shop’s front window, catching on something at the corner of her eye—a glint of glass, a flicker of light. Her gaze shifted to the counter. There, half-hidden among a cluster of trinkets, sat a snow globe. The glass sphere sparkled where the light touched it, as if it held a secret. Drawn in despite herself, Sara closed the door softly and stepped back toward it.

She reached out, fingers brushing the cool glass. Inside, delicate flakes of silver glitter rested over a miniature castle, its spires rising above a maze of hedges that coiled like serpents at its base. 

Sara turned the globe in her hands, noticing the small key at the bottom. Without thinking, she twisted it, and the soft, melancholic notes of a lullaby  filled the shop. The tune was slow, almost sorrowful, and it made the tiny silver flakes stir inside the globe like a winter storm. The music stirred something deep inside her, a bittersweet ache she didn’t understand.

“How much for this?” She asked before she could stop herself. Her mom does give her an allowance but she’s been trying not to buy anything while job searching. 

“For you? Five dollars.”

“That seems cheap, Mr. Gold. This snow globe is beautiful and in condition.”

“It has been on that counter for as long as I could remember. No one has bothered to grab it but you.”

Sara smiled and took out ten dollars from her wallet. “Keep the change, Mr. Gold.”

“Let me put it in a wrap so you don’t drop it while on your job search.” 

Mr. Gold reached for a piece of soft, crinkled tissue paper from a drawer behind the counter. He laid it gently on the worn wood surface and carefully placed the snow globe in the center. Folding the paper around it with practiced hands, he made sure the glass was snugly cushioned.

Next, he took a length of thin, golden twine and wrapped it around the bundle twice, tying a neat bow on top. “There,” he said with a small smile. “Safe and sound, ready for your journey.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gold. I appreciate it. Have a good day!” 

Sara stepped out onto the sidewalk, cradling the carefully wrapped snow globe. She was so lost in thought that she nearly collided with Archie and Pongo.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Dr, Hopper,” she said, stepping back as Pongo gave an eager wag of his tail. She bent down to give the dalmatian a good scratch behind his ears. “And sorry Pongo.”

“No harm done,” Archie said warmly. His eyes, kind and steady behind his glasses, took her in. He was the only therapist in town and never judged anyone. Sara was grateful for him. “Were you in a hurry?”

“No, sorry I got excited. I got a good deal from Mr. Gold for a snowglobe.”

Archie smiled softly. “That sounds like a nice find. Something special?”

Sara nodded, clutching the wrapped globe a little tighter. “Yeah… it plays a lullaby.”

Archie’s gaze softened with understanding. “Music has a way of reaching places words can’t.”

He glanced at his watch and then back at her. “By the way, your session is just before Henry’s today. I’ll see you soon.”

Sara grimaced. Her mom had a strict routine, and for some reason, Thursdays were the days her kids had to attend therapy. She would see Dr. Hopper at 4:45 p.m., while Henry’s session was scheduled for 5:45 p.m. Her mom preferred to keep them separate so no one would be waiting in the lobby together.

Yet Sara always ended up walking her brother back after his session and having dinner alone at home. She gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Dr. Hopper. See you then.”

She still had a couple of hours until their session, but considering she’d been looking for a job for what felt like forever, Sara didn’t know how much longer she could take it. The rejection, the waiting, the endless walking around town with nothing to show for it—it was starting to wear her down.

At this point, she’d rather work at Granny’s than at her mom’s office. At least at the diner she’d be around people—actual conversations, laughter, maybe even someone who looked her in the eye. Not just her mom barking orders and the small group of employees who barely spoke above a whisper around her.

It would be lonely. More lonely than home.

Sara tucked the snow globe tighter under her arm and continued walking down the street. She caught sight of Marco stepping out of his old truck, a belt of tools slung over one shoulder. He looked up and gave her a warm smile as he reached into the truck bed for a piece of lumber.

“Good Morning, Sara,” he called, his voice warm and familiar with his Italian accent. 

“Hi, Marco,” she said, managing a small smile as she approached.

“You looked sad. Job hunting is not a success yet?”

“Nope. Are you looking for someone to help you out?”

“Ah I’m sorry my dear. I don’t have enough to give you a decent pay and besides, I believe your mother would frown with you helping an old handyman.”

“You’re not old, Marco.”

He chuckled, brushing sawdust from his sleeve. “That’s very kind of you to say. I know it’s been tough. Your mother just wants the best for you - all parents do. I know if my wife and I had a child, we would’ve been in the same position.”

Sara smiled sadly. She knew Marco had always wanted to be a father. His wife had passed during childbirth, a quiet tragedy that lingered in town memory. For as long as she could remember, Marco hadn’t dated anyone. She had a faint flickering memory of his wife but the harder she tried to remember her, the harder it was to see the full picture. She just remembered how much Marco cherished her. 

Marco had never lost that warmth. He still smiled the same, still spoke with that quiet patience. He doted on Henry whenever he came by to fix something at the house, always slipping him a cookie or showing him how a tool worked.

Then Marco cleared his throat, straightening his back with a soft grunt. “You know, if I did have something to offer you, I’d take you on in a heartbeat. You’ve always been a hard worker, and you’ve got a good heart.”

Sara smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Marco glanced down the street and studied her for a moment, then added, “But I did hear about something that might be more up your alley. Have you ever thought about King’s Fine Instruments?”

Sara blinked. “I thought that shop was closed.”

“It’s quiet, not closed. You must be thinking of Mr. King’s music club. Such a tragedy that it’s closed. You should go over to his shop. Mr. King is a private man but I hear he’s been looking for help. Nothing fancy, just keeping things organized and tending to the front. For someone with a love for music,” he tilted his head toward her. “Might be the right kind of quiet for you.”

She shifted the snow globe in her arms, thinking of the lullaby still echoing faintly in her head.

“You should go while it’s still quiet.” 

Sara glanced down the road. King’s Fine Instruments was down the road. She’d passed it a hundred times and never once gone inside. Most people didn’t. No one really knew why Mr. King had closed his music club years ago, yet kept the shop open. He rarely came out, and hardly anyone ever went in. Still it was music and it couldn’t hurt to try. It wasn’t like it was her first rejection. 

“Thank you, Marco. I will go.”

“Anytime, cara mia. Don’t give up. Sometimes the right door just takes a little longer to find.”

Sara walked slowly toward King’s Fine Instruments, the weight of the snow globe still tucked safely in her arms. From a distance, the shop looked like any other music store—modest brickwork, an old painted sign above the door, its letters slightly faded with time.

She paused and leaned in, peeking through a gap of a see through curtain. The display window was dusty, but beyond the glass she could see rows of string instruments lining the walls—violins, cellos, and guitars resting like they were asleep. A vintage piano stood near the back, half-lit by a single hanging lamp that swayed just a little, as if someone had only recently passed by.

It didn’t look abandoned. Just…waiting. 

Sara hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle. She took a deep breath. “You can do this.”

The bell above the door chimed softly as she pushed it opened. The scent of aged wood, polished brass, and something faintly floral greeted her. The shop was warmer inside than she expected, a welcome contrast to the breeze outside. Despite the dim lighting, the space felt alive. There were shelves of books and sheet music. Guitars were lined up in different colors. 

Sara stepped inside fully, letting the door close behind her with a soft click. The hush that followed was so complete, it felt almost sacred.

“Hello?” she called gently, not wanting to disturb the strange peace of the place.

No answer came, but something about the quiet invited her to stay.

Sara moved deeper into the stop, her footsteps muffled by an expensive rug that stretched across the hardwood floor. She passed rows of records, her fingers touching them. The whole shop felt paused. Like it had taken a breath and was waiting to exhale.

Her gaze drifted toward the upright piano near the back, the same one she’d seen through the window. It was older, its dark wood faded in places, but the keys looked lovingly cared for—clean, smooth, ivory and ebony worn by years of play.

Drawn in, Sara slipped off her bag and set it gently on a stool nearby.  She placed the packaged globe on the piano. She ran her fingers lightly across the keys, the touch familiar and comforting. After a moment’s hesitation, she sat down on the bench.

She didn’t think—didn’t plan. Her fingers moved before her thoughts did, playing something light and cheerful, a tune her mom used to hum when she used to braid her hair. Playful, bouncing, almost silly. The notes echoed softly in the still shop, warm and curious.

A smile crept across her face.

For the first time in a long while, she felt like herself. She played a few more measures, letting the melody dance around her, filling the quiet shop with soft, tumbling notes.

When she finally paused, letting her hands fall to her lap, a voice spoke from behind her, calm, rich, and slightly raspy.

“You play beautifully.”

Sara startled and turned quickly on the bench. A man stood just past the doorway to a back room, leaning lightly against the doorframe. He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with sharp features softened by curiosity. His pale blonde hair was neatly swept back, and he wore a dark vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled just above his wrists. His eyes—an unreadable mix of blue and grey—watched her with quiet interest, like he was studying a half-remembered song. A book hung loosely from one hand. 

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Sara said quickly, standing up. “Marco said you might be looking for help. I didn’t even know this place was still open.”

The man stepped forward, setting the book on a nearby shelf. “Most people don’t. I prefer the quiet. It filters out the ones who don’t really care about music.”

Sara felt her cheeks warm. “I didn’t mean to mess with anything. The piano just…it’s a beautiful piano.”  

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, it is.”

She hesitated. “Are you Mr. King?”

He nodded once. “I am.”

Sara shifted, suddenly unsure if she’d overstepped. She gripped the strap of her bag, her fingers brushing the edge of the wrapped snow globe.

“I’m Sara,” she offered, voice softer now. “I’ve been looking for a job. Marco mentioned you might need help around the shop. With inventory or organizing.

Mr. King studied her for a moment—not unkindly, but with the kind of focus that made her feel like he was listening to more than just her words.

“The mayor’s daughter,” he said after a pause, “wants to work here?”

Sara stiffened slightly. It wasn’t the first time someone had said it like that. Like it was strange. Like it didn’t make sense.

“I’m not here because of her,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I like music. And I need a job.”

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened.

“You could’ve gone to Granny’s diner. Or the flower shop. Safer choices. Louder ones.”

She gave a small shrug. “I like music.”

A quiet hum passed between them, like a low chord being tuned in the air.

Mr. King stepped closer to the piano, resting one hand slightly on its frame. “This place isn’t always easy. It’s not just dusting and stacking shelves. Music gets under your skin, if you let it.”

“I’m not afraid of that,” Sara said.

This time, his smile reached his eyes.

“Then you can start tomorrow,” he said, nodding toward a small wooden stool tucked behind the counter. “After school.”

“I don’t go to school anymore. I have a GED. I can start tomorrow morning.” She exclaimed, maybe a little too quickly, too eagerly. Her cheeks burned. 

His eyes flickered with surprise. He nodded his head and turned back to the back room. “I’ll see you here tomorrow morning, Miss. Mills. 8am.”

“It’s Sara.” 

But the owner only lifted a hand in parting and disappeared through the doorway, leaving her alone in the silence of the shop, the echo of his voice lingering like the final note of a song.

…

Enchanted Forest

The garden was quiet, save for the sound of water trickling from the stone well nestled among the wild roses. Moonlight spilled through the canopy of flowering trees, and Amara inched to be barefoot in the soft grass, but her mother would disapprove especially on a night like this. Tonight there was a masquerade ball at the palace. It was Snow’s idea for fun, to let the townspeople mix in with the royals and have fun. 

But Amara wasn’t having fun. Her mother wanted her to socialize with the highborn children, but she didn’t want to. Snow White was better at socializing with people. Amara didn’t want to be part of it. She would’ve been content to be in the music room or the library. But her family would not hear of it. 

“I’m waiting on a wish,” Amara sang quietly over the well, softly singing. “Beneath a thousand treetops, and as the silver sky stops, I long to leave the walls behind me.”

A soft breeze stirred the leaves above, and for a moment, it felt like the garden was holding its breath. The air shimmered slightly, like the night itself had shifted, listening.

Amara’s fingers brushed the edge of the well, her mask fell loosely on the grass. “I’m waiting on a wish.” She sighed quietly.  

The breeze grew colder, sharper. And then a voice, low and melodic, answered from the shadows beyond the roses.

“You sing beautifully.”

She turned sharply. A man stood just beyond the garden’s edge, half in shadow. He wore black, a coat that shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and wore a silver mask. His hair was pale, wind-tousled, and his eyes were on her. 

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I wasn’t startled,” Amara blurted out and her cheeks burned. “I mean, what are you doing out here and not inside?”

He didn’t move closer, not right away. He stood just at the edge of the moonlight, half-real, like a dream caught between waking and sleep. “The same as you. Hiding from everyone.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“After tripping a young lord on the dance floor, yes.”

“He deserved it.” The young princess mumbled, arms crossed. Her mom had practically shoved her to the nearest lord that wanted to have a dance with a princess. He didn’t care if it was with her or her half sister. But she did not approve of his comments about becoming his child bearing wife as if she did not have a say in the matter. So, she tripped him and the young lord fell flat on his face. 

“I don’t disagree with you there.” 

“Why are you hiding, sir?”

The masked man’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but close. “Because I’ve never cared much for rooms full of people pretending to be someone else. There’s no fun if no one puts the effort into it.”

Amara raised a brow. “You’re wearing a mask. Are you pretending to be someone else?”

“You have one,” He pointed to the mask on the grass. “Who were you pretending to be?” 

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Fair point. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, deflecting. “And if I’m going to be mocked by a stranger, I’d at least like to know what to call him.”

He stepped forward just enough that the moonlight kissed the silver edge of his mask. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m no one important?”

“No,” she said plainly. “You talk like someone who knows things. People who know things are always important.”

His laugh was soft — not mocking, but gentle. It sent a strange flutter through her chest. “I’ve been called many things,” he said. “But important? That depends on who’s asking.”

“I’m Amara.”

“I know.”

Her breath caught, and something in her spine straightened. “How?”

He looked toward the well, the reflection of the moon rippling like a pulled thread in fabric. “I know the way songs sound when they come from someone who doesn’t quite belong. You sang to the well. You wished.”

She frowned. “It was just a song - a tune really.”

“Not to the right ears.”

Amara felt the quiet press in again, not uncomfortable, but weighty, charged. “Do you work at the palace?”

“No.”

“Are you from the village?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”

“Only because you’re asking the wrong questions.”

She laughed, despite herself. “Then tell me the right ones.”

He studied her deeply, like someone reading a book and wanting to know the ending. She shouldn’t even be out here, alone with him. It wasn’t necessarily proper for a princess of the castle. Her mother would frown about it. Her father would be furious yet concerned that she left the ball. Snow would be the same way but more vocal.

“Ask me what you really want to know, princess.” 

She met his gaze - that strange storm sky blue that seemed to shift like smoke and felt her heart skip again. “Will I see you again?”

The wind stirred the roses around them.

“If you look in the right places,” he said. “And listen closely.”

She turned, suddenly aware of the time, the music fading in the distance from the palace. Her family didn’t notice her disappearance, they will soon.

“I should go.”

He nodded once. “Then go.”

She took a few steps, then paused. “Will you come back inside? Perhaps…save me a dance, my lord?”

He didn’t answer right away. For a moment, he only watched her, his expression unreadable beneath the silver mask. The moonlight turned his pale hair to threads of frost, his coat whispering softly as the breeze lifted its hem.

“I will,” he said softly. “I promise. I cannot leave tonight without dancing with a beautiful girl with a beautiful voice.”

Amara’s breath hitched, the words lodging somewhere deep and strange in her chest. No one made a promise to her like that before. She gave a small curtsy, one hand brushing the edges of her gown. “Then I’ll wait.”

And though she meant it lightly, almost playfully, the moment felt heavier, like the garden itself had taken note. He inclined his head, just once, as if sealing some silent promise between them. As Amara turned back toward the glowing arches of the palaces, she dared one last glance over her shoulder.

The masked man stood over the well and hummed a song. 

And the melody caught her breath. It was the same tune her grandfather used to hum when she was small, when the nightmares came and she needed grounding. Soft and haunting, a lullaby laced with magic or was it memory? She stopped, just for a heartbeat, staring at the figure silhouetted by the moonlight. How could he know that song? 

But when she blinked, the air where he’d stood shimmered like heat off stone. The garden was empty. The only sound now was the wind in the leaves, and the echo of that impossible tune lingering in her ears like a secret. 

Amara pressed a hand to her chest, unsure whether her heart was racing from the chill, or from something far older and deeper than anything she understood. She turned toward the palace again, her steps slower this time. But she didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to. 

He had promised.

He would come.

And she would wait.

She would wait for him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Sara slid the key into the lock and turned it slowly. The old library door gave a stubborn creak as it opened, groaning like it hadn’t moved in years. She slipped inside quickly, glancing behind her to make sure no one had seen. The air inside was cold and dry. Dust floated in lazy spirals through the light streaming in from the high arched windows. The scent was a mix of paper, old wood, and something faintly metallic—like the echo of a memory.

The floor stretched wide and flat, a single open expanse framed by towering bookshelves. Some were still full, lined with encyclopedias and outdated novels; others stood nearly empty, as if people had slowly forgotten to care. Near the center, several reading tables sat untouched, their lamps dark and shades askew.

She stepped forward quietly, her boots brushing across a faded rug. Somewhere above her, the steady tick-tick-tick of the clocktower echoed, muffled but ever-present, like the heartbeat of the town.

No one ever came here anymore. The library had been closed “for renovations” for as long as Sara could remember. But nothing had changed. No construction crews. No plans. Just another place in Storybrooke that had been quietly locked away by her mother. 

Her mom never bothered to do anything with the library. Sara was disappointed but glad she didn’t do anything. She had two places that she could escape to and the library was one of them. 

Sara placed her bag and the wrapped snow globe gently on the librarian’s desk. The only section of the closed library that’s not covered in dust since she cleaned it last weekend. She settled into the worn leather chair behind it and unwrapped the globe. She wound the key slowly, and as the soft notes began to play again, Sara smiled. 

From her bag, she pulled out a small black notebook, its cover creased, corners bent, the spine held together with tape. Inside, the pages were filled with scribbled words. Not journal entries, not poems. Just words. Phrases. Fragments.

Thoughts that came to her too fast to shape into anything real. She flipped it open and ran her fingers down the scattered page. 

Watching

A voice in the garden

A melody that knows me

Maze 

Wishing and waiting for

Queen meant to be

Sara pulled her pen out from the spiral binding and added a new one beneath the rest, softly singing: “Waiting on a wish.”

The ticking of the clocktower echoed faintly overhead, as if it had read the words too. Sara leaned back in the chair and stared out toward the rows of forgotten books.

Everyone in town knew about her love of music. She used to sing without thinking—on walks home from school, while doing dishes, in the quiet hours after Henry fell asleep. It had been a part of her, as natural as breathing. For a while, she even dreamed of performing. Not in the spotlight or on a big stage like Broadway - just enough to be heard. Enough to feel like her voice or words mattered. 

But she never wrote a complete song. Just tiny scraps of melody. Dialogues from plays she made up in the margins of homework assignments. Singing cover songs. In another life, maybe, that’s where she would’ve gone.

But helping her mom raise Henry had come first. Always. There were doctor’s appointments, therapy, homework, grocery lists, bedtime routines. Her mom worked long hours as the mayor, and Sara picked up the slack.

There hadn’t been room for her dreams.

Her mom never said it cruelly, just clearly. Singing didn’t pay bills. Writing didn’t put a roof over your head. Music was a hobby. Reality was what kept the lights on. And Sara had nodded each time. Because that’s what you did when someone you loved looked at your dreams like they were made of mist. Her mom wanted what was best for her. 

She let her pen trail a line down the page in her notebook, then scribbled out a thought before it could disappear:

Feeling trapped by the walls that hold her 

Feeling stuck in the story she was told

She stared at the words, surprised by them. Then she flipped to a clean page and wrote a new title at the top:

Waiting on a Wish

She didn’t know if it would become a song, a poem, or just another cluster of words. But for the first time in weeks, she felt like something was moving inside her. 

Something that hadn't stirred in a long time.

She had found a job. Not because she was Regina Mills’ daughter. Not because someone felt sorry for her. But because Mr. King, strange, soft-spoken, unreadable Mr. King, looked at her and believed she could be of use.

That she belonged somewhere.

That maybe, she wasn’t just waiting anymore.

Sara leaned back in the chair and closed her notebook, the echo of the snow globe’s song fading gently into silence. She glanced up at the rows of dusty shelves and the soft, golden light filtering in through the windows.

The library wasn’t alive again.

But she was.

...

The bell above the shop door gave a soft chime, low and clear. Jefferson stepped inside, quiet as a whisper, the afternoon light catching the edge of his dark coat. He let the door close gently behind him and took a few steps in. 

“I’m here,” he said, voice smooth but laced with curiosity. “You called for me?”

From the back room, Mr. King emerged and rolled his sleeves. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, storm-colored and steady, held the weight of something just beginning to turn.

“She came in,” he said.

Jefferson tilted his head slightly. “The girl?”

Mr. King nodded once. “The Savior’s presence is working. Amara came in.”

Jefferson’s brow lifted. “Don’t you mean Sara?”

Mr. King looked past him for a beat, gaze flicking to the piano in the corner. “It is still her. The curse didn’t just take her memories. It took her name too.”

Jefferson’s mouth pulled into a faint, knowing smile. “And names are powerful.”

“They are,” Mr. King replied. “She doesn’t remember who she is but somewhere on the surface, she is emerging even if she doesn’t know it.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. Outside, the faint ticking of the clocktower echoed through the afternoon stillness, steady and inescapable.

“So… you think my daughter will remember me?” Jefferson asked quietly.

“No.” The answer came bluntly, like a stone dropped in still water. “Whether the Evil Queen knows it or not, her daughter was born of magic. It’s locked away right now, but a tiny part of her remembers her life in the Enchanted Forest. The longer the Savior is here, the quicker the curse weakens.”

“But?”

Mr. King’s eyes darkened slightly. “Emma Swan grew up believing fairytales are just fairytales. Convincing her otherwise… that’s difficult. I believe that’s what young Henry Mills is trying to do—trying to make her see the truth.”

Jefferson groaned. “How much longer do we have to wait? It’s been 28 years. I’m losing my daughter each day to people that aren’t her parents. And what about you? How are you not losing your sanity every day when you see Amara, knowing who she is and what she is to you?”

“And how do you know who she is to me?”

“You and I are the only ones who have their memories intact for the past 28 years. There should be no reason to lie now. I can see the way you look at her. You haven’t stopped looking.”

Mr. King stayed silent. His fingers brushed the spine of a music book beside him, but he didn’t open it. “Nothing can happen until the Savior breaks the curse. You and I cannot interfere.” 

“So you are allowing a ten year old boy to hold the town’s fate?”

“The Savior just turned twenty eight years old. We don’t know when she will break the curse or how but she will do it this year. We can’t do anything but wait.”

Jefferson sneered, “I’m tired of waiting.”

“And I am tired of wishing !” Mr. King roared. His fist slammed on the desk beside him. Jefferson took a step back. “Wishing for Amara to remember me . Everyday she glances at the store but she doesn’t see me. Today was the first day we had actually talked to one another in five minutes. She looked at me like a stranger and it pains me to my core.”

Jefferson stood still for a beat, the echo of Mr King’s outburst hanging heavy between them. The music shop, usually filled with quiet reverence, felt like it had been cracked open—its silence no longer peaceful but strained.

Mr. King dragged in a breath, slow and ragged, like a man trying to cage the storm in his chest. He looked away, ashamed of his own loss of control. “I know it pains you as a father to have to wait. But if we interfere now, before the curse begins to break, it could ruin everything. The Savior won’t believe and she will take young Henry with her. If I tell Amara the truth, it could shatter her completely. She could reject it all. Reject me or worse, her mother would lock her up.”

Jefferson folded his arms, his voice low. “If we wait too long, the Evil Queen wins.”

Mr. King’s jaw tensed. “That’s the balance we walk on. Be patient, Mad Hatter.”

“Don’t call me that - Goblin King.”

They both fell silent again, the ticking of the clocktower faint in the distance, as if mocking their helplessness.

Jefferson finally moved to the door, his coat billowing faintly as he turned. “If the Savior fails…”

“She won’t,” Mr King said quickly but with conviction that left no room for doubt.

Jefferson nodded once, and with a flick of his coat, stepped outside into the afternoon chill. The Goblin King remained behind the counter, staring down at the piano bench where Amara had sat hours earlier. He reached out and touched one of the ivory keys, letting it ring once—soft and solitary.

“I’m still here, Amara,” he whispered. “I’ll keep waiting. Even if you never remember… I’ll still find you.”

...

The door to Dr. Hopper’s office clicked softly behind her as Sara stepped out, tugging her jacket down and letting out a long, slow breath. For once, the session hadn’t drained her. It felt oddly okay. Not great—never great—but she’d talked more than usual, even told Dr. Hopper about the new job. He’d smiled, genuinely, and said he was proud of her. She didn’t hear that often from anyone.

The words had lingered, warm and unfamiliar, even as she walked out into the waiting room.

She barely had time to enjoy the feeling before the bell above the door jingled softly, and Henry stepped in. His eyes were downcast, mouth pressed in a firm line. Something was definitely wrong.

“Henry,” Sara walked over to him. “What’s wrong?”

Henry looked up at her, startled for a moment and ran into her, putting his small arms around her waist. “She doesn’t believe me.”

“What?” She pulled him away from her and crouched down. “Who doesn’t believe you?”

“She said I was crazy. Emma. I heard her and mom talking.”

Sara didn’t like where this was heading. 

“Henry, what did you overhear?” 

“Emma said I can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality and that I’m losing my mind.”

Sara narrowed her eyes. This sounded like their mom. She had a routine and no one could disrupt that and somehow, Emma Swan was in their mom’s office when she and Henry would have dinner before his therapy. 

“Do you think I’m crazy too?”

“No.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Henry, look at me. You’re my little brother and I will never think of you as crazy.”

Henry sniffled and wiped his sleeve across his face. “But if Emma doesn’t believe me, then she can’t break the curse and you will be stuck with everyone else.”

Sara smiled sadly and moved strands of his hair away from his face. She wasn’t going to break his faith in something that she couldn’t understand or believe. 

“Henry, you’re one of the smartest, most thoughtful kids I’ve ever known. You see things in ways most people miss.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Just because other people don’t believe something doesn’t mean it’s not true. Sometimes it just means they’re not ready.”

Henry looked down at the floor, processing her words.

“Hey.” She gently lifted his chin. “Let them say what they want. You believe in something big—and that’s brave. Okay?”

Henry gave a wobbly nod. “Okay.”

The door to Dr. Hopper’s office opened quietly behind them, and the therapist stepped into the waiting room with a warm smile. “Henry? Ready for today?”

Henry nodded, hesitating only a moment before looking back at his sister. “You’ll wait for me?”

“I’m sorry Henry but I’m going to talk to mom. I’ll pick you up after.” 

He nodded and stepped inside the office. Archie smiled at her before closing the door. 

Sara sighed and ran her finger through her hair. She left the building with a purposeful stride, the wind cool against her flushed cheeks. Her boots clicked softly on the sidewalk as she headed toward the house, the weight of everything settling in her chest. The moment with Henry replayed in her mind—his tiny arms wrapped around her, his voice trembling with doubt.

Emma said he was crazy.

And Mom let her .

Sara saw her mom tidying up the remnants of the apple tree outside. 

“How could you, mom?”

“Excuse me?” She couldn’t believe her mom had the audacity to look surprised at her.

“Do you like hurting Henry? You hurt him, mom.”

“I did nothing of the sort. Miss. Swan was the one who called your brother crazy.”

“And you let her! You didn’t even bother to defend your son - which is what a mother should do and not send him to therapy.”

Regina turned fully toward her, lips pressing into a thin line. “Don’t tell me how to be a mother, Sara.”

“Then be one ,” Sara shot back, her voice low but trembling with restrained anger. “Henry heard everything. He came into therapy looking like someone had pulled the ground out from under him.”

Regina’s gaze faltered just for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “He needs help, not encouragement to spiral into delusions about fairytales and curses.”

“They’re not delusions to him,” Sara snapped. “They’re real. They mean something. And even if you don’t believe it, even if I don’t fully understand it, the least you could’ve done was not make him feel alone in it.”

Regina straightened her spine, chin lifting in that imperious way she always did when she was retreating behind power. “You don’t know the pressure I’m under. This town, this job—everything depends on order, on reality .”

“And what about Henry?” Sara stepped forward, voice thick. “What about the little boy who’s trying so hard to make someone believe him? The same boy who you send to therapy like it’s a punishment instead of listening to what he’s saying?”

Regina’s jaw clenched. “I do what I have to do.”

“No,” Sara said softly. “You do what makes you feel in control.”

That hit home as she saw the flicker in her mother’s eyes, that flash of hurt she quickly buried. Regina’s voice dropped. “This conversation is over.”

Sara shook her head, backing away. “No, Mom. It’s just getting started.” She turned and walked down the sidewalk, her hands shaking. 

“Don’t you dare turn your back to me.” Her mom scorned. “Get back here right now, young lady.” 

But she ignored her. Sara kept walking. Each step felt louder than the last, echoing in her chest, like her heartbeat was marching beside her. 

“Sara Amaris Mills, get back here right this instant.” Her mother’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing through the quiet street.

She halted in her steps. The use of her full name rooted her in place, the sound of it cutting through the cool afternoon air like a blade. Amaris. It wasn’t a name Regina Mills used often, not unless she was furious. Sara turned. And her mom was furious. 

Her mom took a step closer, heels clicking against the pavement. “You don’t speak to me like that. I am your mother.”

“I know,” Sara said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why it hurts more.”

Her mom’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Her fingers curled at her sides, furious and speechless all at once.

The wind tugged lightly at her hair, and the faint ticking of the clocktower above reminded them both that time was moving—whether they wanted it to or not.

“I have always done what’s best for you,” Regina finally said, her voice low and trembling, trying to pull itself back into control.

“No, you’ve done what’s best for you,” Sara replied. “And I don’t think you even realize there’s a difference.”

Her mother flinched, “Go to your room, now. I won’t ask twice. You are grounded for a week. You will be helping me in the office in that meantime, no more job shopping.”

“I can’t do that. I start my new job tomorrow.”

“A job?” Regina cut in, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Where?”

Sara straightened her shoulders. “At King’s Fine Instruments.”

Regina blinked, thrown. “That place still open?”

“Yes,” Sara said, steady now. “And Mr. King offered me a position. I took it.”

“You will decline it,” Regina said firmly, the mayor mask slipping into place. “That man is—he’s strange. He keeps to himself. He’s not someone I want you working for.”

“Well, it’s not your choice,” Sara snapped, the words out before she could stop them. “For once, I made a decision for me.”

Regina’s eyes flashed. “You’re sixteen, Sara.”

“I will be seventeen soon,” she said, her voice trembling with restraint. “And I got my GED. I’ve taken care of Henry more than half his life while you ran the town like a kingdom. I need something that’s mine.”

Her mother took a breath like she was preparing a final blow.

But Sara stepped back. “I start tomorrow at 8am. You can ground me, you can take my phone, but I’m going.”

Regina stared at her daughter as though seeing her for the first time. But whatever she saw wasn’t something she could control. Sara turned and walked away again, but this time, there was no demand for her to come back.

Only the quiet hum of wind and the slow, steady ticking of the clock tower overhead.

...

Enchanted Forest :

Moonlight flickered through stained glass as Amara slipped silently through the grand ballroom doors, reentering the masquerade despite her earlier escape. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled like frozen stars, scattering fractured light across a sea of masked faces that danced and twirled beneath their glow.

Her mother had originally opposed the idea of a ball that mixed nobles and commoners. But Amara had pleaded her case—promising she could persuade the royal dressmaker to create special garments for the villagers, something they could cherish and remember the night by. It wasn’t until her grandfather quietly voiced his support that her mother relented—on one condition: she would choose Amara’s gown herself.

The result was breathtaking.

Amara’s gown shimmered in a rich shade of midnight blue, the fabric flowing like moonlight on water. Layers of sheer tulle cascaded to the floor with graceful volume, creating a silhouette that blended royal poise with fairytale charm. Long, billowing sleeves drifted around her arms like whispers of wind. Across the bodice, delicate silver floral embroidery curled and spiraled, catching the light with every step and tracing a path from her heart to her waist, each thread stitched with quiet magic. Her mask was a glittered blue.

A firm hand caught her wrist before she could disappear into the crowd. “Amara, where have you been?” Snow White’s voice was gentle but insistent as she tugged her sister toward the refreshment table tucked away near a heavy velvet curtain. 

“I had to keep stalling father and your mother.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you went back to your room to take a breath.”

“Thank you, Snow. I appreciate it. I needed a few minutes in the gardens before I could come back inside. The horrible lord nearly ruined the ball for me.”

Snow White’s eyes softened with sympathy as she glanced toward the sparkling crowd swirling beneath the grand chandeliers. “You handled it well. Father was actually proud that you did that.”

“Mother is sure to be displeased with me. It could potentially ruin my marriage aspects.”

“Any lord that doesn’t treat you with respect deserves to be tripped. Let the whole room see him for what he is: a clumsy fool.”

Amara giggled. “Snow! I had never heard you speak of someone in that way.”

“You’re my sister.” She said and handed her a glass of lemonade. “I always protect you.”

“And I will do the same.” Amara promised and clicked both of their glasses. 

Snow White smiled warmly, the glow of the chandeliers reflecting in her eyes. “That’s what sisters are for.”

Amara took a slow sip of the lemonade, letting the cool sweetness calm the fire still burning in her chest. Around them, the music swelled, the murmurs of masked guests weaving through the ornate room. 

Beside her, Snow White stood in a gown of soft lavender that shimmered with every subtle movement. The full skirt rippled in satin waves, light and regal, as if spun from morning mist and moonlight. Her fitted bodice gleamed with intricate beadwork, delicate as frost on a winter windowpane. Long lavender gloves extended past her elbows, and her mask matched her gown perfectly, framing her kind eyes with royal elegance.

“There are my two beautiful daughters,” said King Leopold, his voice warm as he approached with Queen Regina beside him, her posture regal and unreadable.

The king leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Amara’s head. “Your mother and I were just about to search the music room,” he said with a soft chuckle. “We figured that’s where you’d gone to hide.”

It had been her first choice but she knew they would have found her there.

“I only needed a moment, Papa,” Amara replied, lifting her chin. “I will apologize to the young lord for harming him… but only if he apologizes first—for how he spoke to me.”

Regina’s eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of her lips tightening. “You expect a lord to apologize to a princess at a royal ball?” 

Amara didn’t flinch. “I expect a man to apologize when he speaks as if I’m a prize to be claimed.”

A brief silence passed between them, tense and weighty.

Regina’s eyes flicked over her daughter’s face, searching. Then, she nodded once, slowly. “Next time, try not to trip him in front of half the court. Disgrace him with your words, not your feet.”

“But if it comes to it,” King Leopold said, hiding a smile behind his cup, “your feet seemed quite effective.”

Snow giggled behind her drink. 

Regina shot her husband a pointed look, then looked back at Amara. “You’re lucky your grandfather and father found it amusing. But be careful, Amara. Power invites scrutiny and a princess does not have the luxury of mistakes.”

Amara nodded her head. “Of course, mother.”

The music shifted, the strings rising into a waltz more elegant than the last. A new wave of couples glided onto the dance floor, gowns sweeping and boots tapping in practiced rhythm. Laughter chimed softly between notes as hands met hands, the intimacy of the dance quiet but undeniable.

Amara’s eyes lingered on the pairs as they moved—on the clasped fingers, the silent understanding between steps. For a moment, she imagined what it might feel like to be seen like that…not just as a princess or a marriage prospect, but as someone chose to hold.

A polite voice broke through her thoughts. “Your Majesty,” a young lord said with a deep bow, addressing King Leopold, “may I have the honor of a dance with Princess Snow?”

Leopold offered a warm nod. “You may.”

Snow gave Amara a brief wink before letting the noble lead her onto the dance floor, her lavender gown catching the light like spun starlight. Her parents moved to talk to a couple from the village. 

Left alone, Amara stepped slightly back into the shadows of the refreshment table. Her gaze drifted across the ballroom and stilled. A small knot of lords stood gathered near one of the gilded pillars, their masks disguising little of the way they whispered, eyes occasionally darting toward her. Assessing. Calculating.

Amara stiffened. She knew that look. Not one of admiration, but ambition.

And she had no desire to dance with any of them.

Amara turned her back to the whispering lords, reaching for another sip of her lemonade though the sweetness now felt bitter on her tongue. The air around her suddenly shifted like the hush before a note is played or the stillness before a curtain rises.

“I was afraid I’d missed my chance,” came a familiar voice: smooth, low, threaded with quiet amusement.

She turned.

The masked man stood a few steps away, just inside the edge of light. His silver mask caught the glow of the chandeliers, the sharp lines of his coat as polished and dark as before. But it was his presence that stilled her, the way he carried himself, like he’d never been lost in the crowd at all, only waiting for the right moment to reappear.

“You came,” Amara said, surprised by how breathless her voice sounded.

“I promised I would,” he replied. “And I never break a promise to someone who sings in the gardens.”

Her pulse fluttered. Around them, the music lifted again, beckoning.

He extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Princess?”

She hesitated, just for a moment. Then, with a small, steady breath, she placed her hand in his. His fingers were warm and steady as he guided her toward the dance floor, Amara no longer cared about the whispers or expectations.

At that moment, there was only music. And him.

The music swelled, a soft waltz weaving through the grand ballroom like silk. Amara’s hand rested lightly in his, the steady warmth grounding her as he led her to the center of the polished floor.

Around them, masked couples glided in time, but Amara felt as if they were the only two in the room. The stranger’s movements were effortless, calculated yet fluid, as if the dance was a language only they spoke.

His eyes met hers beneath the silver mask, and for a moment, the world beyond the ballroom faded. She caught the faintest smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear, “what song are you waiting on?”

Amara’s breath caught. “A wish,” she whispered back. “One I’m not even sure I can believe in.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “Sometimes, the most impossible wishes are the ones worth waiting for.”

As they spun slowly beneath the chandeliers, Amara felt the weight of the night lift just a little, caught between the magic of the dance and the promise in his voice. The melody carried them forward, and for once, she dared to believe.

As the music deepened, the stranger’s hand tightened gently around hers, guiding Amara closer. The space between them melted away until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, subtle and reassuring.

His scent drifted to her, a mix of cedarwood and something faintly sweet, like wildflowers after rain. It wrapped around her, pulling her deeper into the moment. Her heart quickened as she looked up into the stormy depths behind the silver mask.

“What is your name, my lord?” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly with curiosity. No one has danced with her like this or dared to pull her like this. 

He paused, as if weighing whether to share a secret too precious for the night. Then, with a voice as soft as the night breeze, he answered, “Names are powerful, princess.”

“You know my name. Does that mean I give you power?”

He smiled beneath the silver mask, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Power isn’t just given or taken. It’s shared… earned.”

“I shared my name with you.”

“And knowing your name is the beginning.”

Amara’s heart fluttered, caught between intrigue and caution. “Then what comes next?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that seemed to blend with the music around them. “That depends on the wish you’re waiting for.”

“I wish to know your name, sir.”

A flicker of mischief and something deeper danced in the masked man’s eyes beneath the silver veil. Slowly, he spoke, “Jareth.”

Amara repeated the name softly, “Jareth,” letting it roll off her tongue like a secret meant only for the two of them.

He kept his gaze locked on hers as the music carried them in a slow, flowing rhythm. The ballroom around them faded into a soft haze of shimmering lights and muted whispers, the world narrowing to the space between their hands and the steady beat beneath their feet.

“A name is only the first note,” Jareth murmured, his voice blending with the music’s pulse. “The rest is a melody waiting to be discovered.”

Her fingers curled lightly around his, the warmth grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. “You speak as if you understand wishes,” she said, voice barely above the music’s breath.

“I do,” he said, drawing her closer as their steps fell into perfect harmony. “Because wishes are the songs that guide us when the world grows quiet.”

As the final notes of the song lingered in the air, Jareth eased back just enough to meet her gaze fully. “Tonight, the dance ends,” he said softly, “but the song has only just begun.”

Amara’s breath caught, the weight of his words settling like a promise between them. With a subtle bow, he stepped back into the shadows of the ballroom, the flicker of his silver mask the last thing she saw before he vanished into the crowd.

Left standing amid the swirling dancers and fading music, Amara pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the echo of the night’s secret melody hum within her.

And somewhere deep inside, a different wish began to stir in the princess.

A wish to know who Jareth is.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Sara changed her outfit three times. 

With thirty minutes left, she finally settled on what made her feel like herself: a navy ribbed sweat with black jeans and a leather jacket. Her favorite black combat boots grounded her with every step, worn just enough to be comfortable but still tough as ever. A silver ring, bold and glittering, sat on her finger that Henry got her last Christmas with chore money. 

Her dark curls tumbled freely around her shoulders in thick, wild waves, and she slipped in a pair of small silver earrings. Sara glanced at herself one more time at the mirror. She looked ready.

Sara ran down the stairs and grabbed her house keys from the hook by the door.. Her mom took Henry to school. She didn’t know what she would’ve said to either of them after last night. It was the first time she had ever talked back to her mom, really talked back. The memory still twisted in her chest. But at least now she didn’t have to sneak out. No hushed footsteps, no excuses. Just the open door and the street ahead.

It would’ve been humiliating to call Mr. King and explain that she couldn’t show up for her first day because she was grounded. It would be pathetic and childish. 

The cold morning air bit at her cheeks as she walked briskly toward the heart of Storybrooke. Familiar streets passed by in a blur, but for once, Sara wasn’t wandering. She had a destination. A purpose.

By the time King’s Fine Instruments came into view, she slowed her steps and adjusted her bag. Everyone walking in the streets were already heading to work or going to Granny’s for breakfast. No one paid any attention to her. But soon, everyone will know that Sara’s morning routine will be going to her workplace.

She paused in front of the door, nerves fluttering low in her stomach. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she pushed it open. The bell chimed softly overhead.

Mr. King stood over the large wooden desk and looked up at her surprised. He was already dressed in his usual dark vest and crisp sleeves. He was writing something in what looked to be a planner. 

“You’re early, Miss. Mills” he said simply.

Sara managed a small smile. “I didn’t want to be late and it’s Sara.”

“Punctuality is a good first impression.” He stepped around the desk, the soft tap of his polished shoes echoing in the quiet shop. “Come, I’ll show you around before we get started.”

Sara swallowed the knot of nerves tightening in her chest and followed, feeling the familiar mix of anticipation and uncertainty bloom inside her.

“The layout is simple. Strings are on this side,” he nodded toward a long wall lined with violins, cellos, and basses. “Brass and woodwinds over there. The piano stays near the back to keep it away from drafts.”

Sara took in the room with wide eyes. The air smelled like polished wood and resin, and faint traces of oil and old paper. Sunlight streamed through the tall front windows, painting golden lines across the gleaming instruments. Everything had a place, it was orderly, careful, almost reverent.

“You can work at the desk up front and I expect you to be there helping customers. I’ll bring a chair over so you can sit next to me while you observe.” He mentioned. “Dust regularly. Don’t leave open cases overnight. And be gentle with tuning forks, some of those are older than this building.”

She nodded, adjusting her bag. “Got it.”

Mr. King glanced at her. “What instruments do you play?”

“Piano, guitar, violin. The rest is a little bit of everything.” She added then hesitated. “I sing too.”

A flicker of warmth and pride softened his features. “Good,” he said quietly. “Music belongs to those who carry it.”

Sara wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but the words lingered and warmed her body. Mr. King was a mysterious man.

He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a simple name tag, writing her name in beautiful cursive. “Here. You’re official now.”

She took it, fingers brushing the metal plate. For the first time in what felt like years, she smiled without forcing it. 

“Welcome to King’s Fine Instruments, Miss Mills.”

And for the first time, the store felt like more than a job. It felt like a beginning.

“It’s Sara…just like how it says on my name tag.” She grinned.

After pinning the name tag to her sweater, Sara tucked her bag behind the counter and glanced around, unsure of where to begin. But Mr. King took her bag and placed it under a shelf of the desk.

Mr. King slid a small stack of paper slips and curled receipts across the desk toward her. “Think you can organize these? I keep meaning to, but other things come up. I would need you to put the newest date on top and double check the computer to make sure they match. I created a poor Excel sheet. If you wish to fix it better, please go ahead and do it.”

Sara took them with a nod, the edges of the old thermal paper crackling softly as she shuffled them into categories already by repairs, sales, deliveries. The handwriting varied. Some were neat and clean, others scribbled in haste. She found a rhythm quickly, her fingers working as the quiet of the store settled around them.

Mr. King returned to tuning a guitar nearby, the soft twang of strings filling the air as she sorted. She didn’t know if anyone in town could play the bass guitar but Mr. King had a lot of instruments and people in town might have hidden talents. 

“If you have a playlist and wish to play it, I can connect it to the speaker.” He said. “I don’t mind as long as the music is tasteful.”

“What do you consider tasteful?”

Mr. King didn’t look up as he adjusted a tuning peg, the delicate sound of the guitar vibrating through the wood. “Something with intention. Soul. Melody,” he said. He plucked another note. “Lyrics that mean something. Harmonies that breathe. Not noise for the sake of noise.”

Sara gave a wry smile as she pulled out her old iPod Touch, the screen slightly smudged. “So… no auto-tuned club hits or shouty breakup songs?”

That earned a small, amused glance. “Not unless they’re sung like they matter.”

She scrolled through her playlists and hovered over one called Rainy Morning , full of mellow tracks like Adele, Ingrid Michaelson, Bon Iver, a little Norah Jones. Songs with breath and feeling.

“Well,” she said, plugging the aux cable into the speaker system, “let’s see if I pass your very particular vibe check.”

Soft piano chords and a warm voice filtered through the store. Mr. King gave a quiet nod of approval and returned to tuning, while Sara sank into her work, the music wrapping around them both like the first chapter of a shared secret.

“You’ll find mornings are usually like this,” Mr. King said without looking up. “Good time to get the counter sorted, tune the display instruments… or help organize with lessons.”

Sara glanced up from the register, eyebrows raised. “Lessons?”

He nodded, finally meeting her gaze. “I teach the occasional student—mostly strings, sometimes piano at any age.”

“That’s… cool.” She leaned her elbows on the counter. “Do you want me to help schedule them or something?”

He paused, then tilted his head. “I was actually going to ask if you’d be interested in teaching in the future.”

Sara blinked. “Me?”

“You play. You sing. You understand the language.” He gestured to the instruments around them. “That’s more than most. We have a few young students looking for beginner piano and voice. I know the school wants to do a musical in the future but there aren’t enough older kids that are interested in doing that if it’s not required for credit.”

She hesitated. She only taught Henry how to read the notes on the piano back at home and she and Alice would sometimes play guitar in her garage for fun. Sara doesn’t know if she will feel comfortable teaching someone.

“Can I think about it?”

He nodded. “Yes of course. It’s just something to keep in mind if there is nothing else to do.”

The soft melodies continued to play, drifting through the room like a gentle invitation. Outside, the town of Storybrooke stirred awake, unaware that in this little shop, a quiet new chapter was beginning.

Sara took a deep breath and returned to sorting the receipts, feeling a list of possibilities will open up for her while she works at this store. ​​The soft chime of the doorbell pulled Sara from her thoughts. She looked up as Mr. Gold stepped inside, his cane making noise. 

“Mr. Gold, good morning.” Sara said, stepping forward with a smile. “Welcome to King’s Fine Instruments. How can I help you today?”

He returned the smile. “I am actually here for a pick up.”

Mr. King stood up from his area and went to the back. He returned with a violin case and placed it on the desk next to Sara’s receipts. He stood next to her as he took out his receipt book. 

Mr. Gold’s gaze flicked briefly between the two of them, his expression unreadable as always, though something sharp and knowing glinted in his eyes.

Mr. King opened the violin case just enough to reveal the polished instrument inside, its surface gleaming like honeyed wood beneath the soft lighting. “Polished, restrung, and tuned,” he said. “Should hold its sound for quite some time.”

“Perfect,” Mr. Gold said smoothly, resting both hands atop his cane. “Just in time to sell for the upcoming holidays.”

Sara raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing as Mr. King jotted down a final note in his receipt book and went to the register. 

"That'll be $65,” Mr. King said, tearing the receipt from the pad and sliding it toward Mr. Gold. “Unless you want me to include the senior discount?”

Sara’s mouth dropped open. A squeak escaped before she could stop it, and she clapped a hand over her lips. However, Mr. Gold didn't look offended. 

“Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. King. That amount is fine. I agreed to it before.” Mr. Gold reached into his coat and pulled out a neatly folded billfold. “No discount necessary,” he said as he counted out the exact amount and placed it on the counter. “Good work deserves good pay.”

Sara lowered her hand but was still biting back a grin. Mr. Gold was known as the most terrifying man in town—even more than her mother. Mr. King, on the other hand, was... aloof. Enigmatic. People didn’t fear him the way they feared Mr. Gold, but somehow, they walked in the same shadows. Close enough to recognize each other’s power.

But it was like Mr. Gold said—appearances could be deceiving.

Mr. Gold reached for the violin case, his fingers brushing the polished handle with something close to reverence. “You’ve taken good care of her,” he said, almost too softly. “Reminds me of a vieille… sweet-toned and fickle, but loyal when played with care.”

Mr. King’s hands stilled on the counter.

Gold glanced up, his eyes glinting with something sharper than amusement. “Old instrument. Carved from moonwood. Said to sing only for the hands it trusted.”

A silence settled between the two men, it was brief, taut, and invisible to anyone who didn’t know to look. Sara blinked, glancing between them, what was moonwood?

Mr. King gave a small, careful nod. “Hard to find materials like that these days.”

Gold smiled thinly. “Yes. But some things… they have a way of surviving.”

With a final glance toward Sara, he tipped his head. “Pleasure as always, Miss Mills. Until next time.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Gold.”

The bell above the door jingled softly as he exited, and the store fell quiet again with her music playing.

“I can’t believe you joked with him like that. You’re funny.”

“He’s a kitten,” Mr. King replied, returning to the guitar on the bench. “Harmless.”

A kitten? She stared at him like he’d just claimed the sky was green.

Mr. King gave a slight shrug, adjusting one of the tuning pegs. “People fear what they don’t understand. Gold understands exactly how far to push, and no farther. That doesn’t make him dangerous. Just… sharp in his observations.”

Sara leaned her arms against the counter, still processing. “You’re the first person I’ve ever heard call him harmless.”

“You’re the first person who’s ever called me funny,” he replied dryly, plucking a clear note from the lute.

She let out a laugh before she could stop herself. “Well. I guess appearances really are deceiving.”

Mr. King didn’t look up, but she caught the slight upward pull at the corner of his mouth.

Sara spent the rest of the morning immersed in the rhythm of the shop; sorting through receipts, updating the Excel sheet Mr. King had started, and tidying up displays. The steady hum of music and the occasional soft chime of the doorbell became a comforting soundtrack to her first day.

Hours slipped by unnoticed until a glance at the clock jolted her and saw that afternoon had arrived, and she realized she hadn’t brought lunch. “I forgot to bring anything to eat,” she muttered, half to herself.

She didn’t want to be downstairs in the kitchen last night since she came back home late from returning from Alice’s. She was afraid her mom would pop out and talk to her again and actually ground her. 

“Come with me to Granny’s,” Mr. King said. “It will be my treat.”

“No, it’s okay. I can get something.”

“Miss. Mills, please. It’s your first day and let me treat you to lunch as a thank you.”

Sara hesitated but her stomach growled. She skipped breakfast because she was nervous. “Okay thank you.” 

Mr. King gave a small, approving smile. “Good.”

They stepped out into the soft afternoon light, the town buzzing quietly around them. Mr. King wore a long, tailored charcoal wool overcoat that fell just below his knees, the subtle velvet collar catching the light as he moved. It was the kind of coat that spoke of old-world elegance, a perfect blend of timeless style and quiet authority. It reminded her a bit of Mr. Gold.

Sara pulled her jacket tighter around her, grateful for the crisp air and the brief escape. The walk to Granny’s was short but gave her a chance to breathe, to feel the world moving outside the walls of the music store and understand that she now has a job. She wasn’t walking down the sidewalk anymore asking for a job. It was a nice change.

Mr. King held the door open for her. She stepped inside, greeted by the warm, comforting scent of brewed coffee and freshly baked pies. Ruby looked up from behind the counter and grinned.

“Sara! The usual? You can sit here at the counter.”

“Actually, Miss. Lucas. A table for two.” Mr. King announced behind her.

Ruby’s smile flickered with surprise but she recovered quickly with a sharp grin. “Well, a table for two it is. Right this way.”

She led them to a cozy corner table by the window, sunlight filtering softly through the curtains. Mr. King pulled out a chair for Sara, his quiet courtesy making her smile again.

“So how’s the first day treating you, Sara?” Ruby teased as she handed them menus.

Sara chuckled. Of course, Ruby heard about her job. “Henry told you.”

“Nope. Sidney Glass.”

Sara groaned. “I’m going to be on the news tomorrow, aren’t I?”

“Mayor’s little girl is growing up.” Ruby teased and glanced over at Mr. King. Ruby’s eyes flicked to Mr. King with a sly smile that mixed warmth and warning. She tucked a loose red strand of her hair behind her ear, then met his gaze steadily. “Well, Mr. King,” she said, her tone light but firm, “Sara’s a good one—don’t go breaking her heart.”

“Ruby!”

What the hell?

She made it sound like they were on a date. 

“I mean, not firing you or else he’ll be responsible for hurting the mayor’s daughter,” Ruby teased with a wink.

Sara felt her face flush like wildfire.

Mr. King arched an elegant brow but didn’t flinch. His gaze met Ruby’s steadily, cool and unreadable.

“Noted, Miss Lucas,” he said smoothly, voice calm and measured. “I assure you, my intentions are strictly professional.”

Ruby’s sly smile deepened, though she held her ground. “Good. Because I don’t take kindly to anyone messing with Sara.”

Forget her face—Sara felt her stomach drop and a heat rush through her whole body. She wanted nothing more than to hide behind the menu.

“So what do you want to drink?”

“Water for the both of us, please.” He answered. 

Ruby winked and strutted away like she owned the place. Sara’s eyes flicked to Mr. King, curious, he didn’t glance once at Ruby’s backside, his gaze fixed solely on the menu. She’d seen men shamelessly ogle Ruby before, and she often wondered how the woman kept her cool so effortlessly. Maybe Mr. King was different. Or maybe he was just better at hiding it.

Sara glanced up from the menu, her eyes drifting to Mr. King as Ruby bustled away to get their drinks. For the first time, she really took him in—the way his dark vest fit perfectly over his slender frame, the crisp white sleeves rolled just so at the wrists. His fingers, long and deft, rested lightly on the table, every movement careful and precise.

There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, steady and unreadable, as if he was always weighing thoughts just beneath the surface. The faintest crease at the corner of his mouth hinted at a humor he rarely showed.

Sara found herself curious about who was the man beneath the calm, almost distant exterior? There was something timeless about him, like a melody waiting to be unraveled.

The sound of Ruby setting down their glasses broke her reverie. She blinked and smiled, grateful for the distraction but already feeling a little more intrigued.

“Do you want the usual, Sara?”

“Yes please.”

“And what is the usual?” Mr. King asked.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

Mr. King hummed softly, then handed his menu back to Ruby. “I’ll have the same.”

Ruby winked as she walked away to place their order. Sara glanced around the diner with the usual few people in the diner on their lunch breaks. Some glanced over at her and Mr. King but the former didn’t realize it or he didn’t care. 

“I didn’t even tell Henry about this job yet,” Sara chuckled, “and somehow Sidney Glass already had a headline drafted in his head this morning.”

Mr. King gave a low hum, more amused than surprised. “Storybrooke is small. Whispers travel faster than footsteps.”

“Next thing I know, I’ll be in the ‘People You Didn't Know Existed But Now You Should Care About’ column.”

“That’s a real column?”

“It should be,” she said, laughing. “He already wrote about Mr. Gold buying a new walking stick once. It was black . That was the story.”

“Thrilling,” Mr. King deadpanned.

She grinned. “Exactly. So I’m expecting something like: ‘ Mayor’s Daughter Abandons Royal Throne for Retail Position at Local Music Shop. ’ ”

He tilted his head. “Not inaccurate.”

Sara narrowed her eyes playfully. “You're not helping.”

“Apologies, Miss Mills.” His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Though I suppose I should expect a spotlight too. I know people believed that my shop was closed.”

“Well, you did shut down your music club. Why did you close it by the way?”

“Renovations and not many people would show up. They would prefer to go to the Rabbit Hole and,” he wrinkled his nose, “shoot pool.”

Sara laughed. “Wow. That almost sounded judgmental.”

Just then, Ruby returned with two steaming bowls of tomato soup and grilled cheese cut diagonally on thick diner plates. She gave a wink to Sara before walking away.

“It was.” Mr. King stirred his soup once before taking a measured bite. “I find sticky floors and neon beer signs far less inspiring than, say… chamber acoustics and jazz.”

She grinned, dunking her grilled cheese into her soup. “So basically, Storybrooke wasn’t classy enough for your club?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He paused. “Just… underappreciated.”

“That’s the same thing.”

He looked unbothered. “Perhaps.”

Sara laughed softly, the sound muffled by her next bite. “You know, I think that’s the most diplomatic way anyone’s ever insulted this town.”

Mr. King raised an eyebrow. “Insult implies ill will. I’m merely observing.”

“With jazz snobbery,” she teased, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “There has to be another reason. Renovations wouldn’t take this long.”

“Time.”

She tilted her head. “Time?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted his grilled cheese with deliberate calm. “Not everything ends because it fails. Some things… wait to be needed again.”

Sara blinked. The words settled into her like puzzle pieces looking for a picture. “Do you think Storybrooke needs it again?”

Mr. King finally looked at her. “I think some people are beginning to remember why they loved music in the first place. That might be enough.”

Sara nodded slowly, unsure if he was talking about the town or her. Just then, the bell above Granny’s front door jingled again, and a gust of cool air followed. Sara turned to glance and froze.

Because standing in the doorway, looking straight at her, was her mother.

Regina Mills.

Still in her tailored black coat and heeled boots, still carrying herself as the mayor of a town she could bend to her will. Her eyes landed directly on Sara and for a second, she felt like time had stopped in the dinner. 

Regina’s eyes flicked from her daughter  to Mr. King. Then back again. She didn’t move right away. She simply stared, like she was trying to figure out whether this was a casual lunch or something else.

Sara forced herself not to shrink under her mother’s gaze, even though every instinct told her to sink into the floor or disappear behind her bowl of soup. Instead, she picked up her spoon again and took a slow, steady bite like her mother’s presence didn’t spike her blood pressure.

Across from her, Mr. King remained perfectly composed, his posture straight, his expression unreadable as he calmly stirred his soup. He didn’t look at Regina, but something in the set of his shoulders told Sara he was aware of every detail.

Regina finally moved, her heels clicking with purpose as she crossed the diner floor. She stopped just beside their table, her lips pressed in a polite, unreadable smile. “Sara,” she said coolly. “Mr. King.”

Sara lowered her spoon. “Hi, Mom.”

Mr. King gave a courteous nod. “Madam Mayor.”

Regina’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. “I wasn’t aware that you were looking for a new employee, Mr. King. What made the decision to hire my daughter?”

Sara stiffened. “I have my GED, Mom. I’m available for more hours.” 

Regina didn’t look at her, eyes still on Mr. King.

“She came in,” he said simply. “She asked. I said yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that, Madam Mayor.” He took another sip of his soup. “You should be proud. Sara has already organized my receipts and created a new formula for me to help track them better on my computer.”

Sara’s chest swelled slightly at Mr. King’s words. But it seemed to make her mom even angrier.

Regina’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as if Mr. King’s praise was a challenge she wasn’t willing to accept.

Her voice dropped, colder than before. “Pride isn’t measured in spreadsheets, Mr. King. It’s measured in responsibility.”

Mr. King set his spoon down deliberately, meeting Regina’s gaze with calm steadiness. “Then you should be proud. Sara is very much her mother’s daughter - strong willed and determined. She’s proven herself capable the past couple of hours.”

“Mom,” Sara hissed. 

“How much are you paying my daughter? Did you say a contract, Sara?”

“Um,” Sara fumbled, her fingers tightening the spoon. “No, not yet. That hasn’t come up yet.”

“I wanted to see how she could fare today. If it wasn’t going to turn out good, I would’ve paid Sara for the day. By the end of the day, a contract will be revealed on her compensation and hours.”

Sara really didn’t like it that they both talked like she wasn’t there but it was better than interrupting the two of them. She glanced over and saw Ruby and Granny not hiding their curious glances. 

Regina crossed her arms. “You will show my daughter the contract after your lunch break is over. I do not want her to work any longer without knowing about her pay. It is the responsible thing to do.”

Mr. King didn’t flinch. He calmly wiped his hands with his napkin, then set it beside his now-empty plate.

“Of course, Madam Mayor,” he said evenly. “I assure you, nothing about Sara’s time has been unpaid or unappreciated. But if it sets your mind at ease, I’ll prepare the contract and review it with her personally after lunch.”

Regina exhaled slowly, drawing herself up. “Fine. I’ll be reviewing this so-called contract later.”

“You’re welcome to,” Mr. King said. “I would expect nothing less from her mother.”

Regina’s eyes narrowed a fraction but she nodded, composed and regal as ever. “Enjoy your lunch.” Then she turned on her heel and grabbed her packed lunch from Granny and strode toward the exit, her heels echoing across the floor like punctuation.

Sara let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Mr. King sipped his soup again. “Well. That went delightfully.”

Sara groaned but continued eating her lunch, ignoring everyone’s stares on them.

Back at the shop, the afternoon light slanted through the tall front windows, casting long, golden beams across the floor. The bell above the door chimed softly behind them as they stepped inside, and Sara shrugged off her jacket, ready to put it in the back. But Mr. King behind the counter, calm as ever, pulled out a slim black folder from a drawer beneath the register.

“As promised,” he said, laying it gently on the counter. “Your contract.”

Sara stepped closer, heart thudding a little faster as she looked down at the neat packet. Her name was typed across the top of the first page—Sara Mills, Shop Assistant.

“I kept it simple,” Mr. King continued, flipping the folder open. “Twelve dollars an hour, forty hours a week to start. Flexible scheduling. Duties listed include register operation, customer assistance, organizing inventory, basic cleaning, and optional help with student scheduling and beginner lessons—should you decide to.”

Sara blinked. “Twelve?”

“You’re capable. It’s fair,” he said plainly. “And I prefer not to underpay people who carry half the store’s brain.”

A laugh caught in her throat. She reached out, running her fingers over the page. Her name. Her hours. Her rate. It was all real. 

“Take the time to read it over with your mother tonight. If you wish to discuss more about your pay, then we will discuss it tomorrow.”

Sara nodded, still tracing the words on the contract. “And… I’ll need Mom to sign it, right?”

Mr. King gave a small, knowing smile. “Yes. Since you’re still under eighteen, her signature is required. I’ll be expecting her call.”

Sara sighed, the weight of adulthood settling on her shoulders but also a spark of excitement. “Okay. I’ll talk to her tonight.”

He closed the folder gently. “Good. You’re off to a strong start, Miss. Mils. Let me know if you have any questions.”

One day she's going to get him to say her name. It's weird to hear her last name from his mouth. She was used to it with Mr. Gold.

She folded the contract carefully and slipped it into her bag. “Thank you, Mr. King. I'll organize the sheet music now.”

Mr King nodded. “Good. I haven’t had the chance to do that in a while.”

…

Mr. King’s eyes followed Sara as she moved toward the shelf of sheet music, a soft hum escaping her lips. There was a resilience about her, a spark that was brightening due to the Savior arriving in town.

Jareth leaned back against the desk, fingers still brushing the edge of his receipt book, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Regina Mills. The Evil Queen.

The Mayor cloaked in polished authority and thinly veiled concern. Their exchange had been a careful dance, words loaded with unspoken warnings and a challenge beneath the surface.

There was no hint that the Evil Queen remembered her life in the Enchanted Forest but there was a possibility. He looked different and he doubted she would recognize him but there could be a chance, the longer he spent time with her daughter. 

He should tread carefully.

But he didn’t care. Nearly three decades without Amara by his side and now, she was here. Perhaps he should consider her not as Amara but as Sara. She was not her, but she is. 

She had Amara’s way of humming to herself when lost in thought, when trying not to feel too much. It was unintentional, instinctive. A thread of the past woven into the present.

He folded his arms, gaze lingering on the curve of her shoulder, the way her curls caught the light. She hadn’t been born with a crown, but she carried herself with the same kind of quiet weight. Heavy enough to matter. Light enough to move unnoticed.

If Regina remembered who he was — who they were — she hadn’t shown it. But she’d seen something. Her suspicion wasn’t motherly concern. It was territorial. Protective. Regal.

The Evil Queen was never one to share what she thought belonged to her.

He allowed himself a rare, amused breath. Even without her memories, Regina still wielded power like a weapon. Still demanded control. And yet, Amara had walked into his shop, not her office like she wanted. She had chosen her path, not one handed down in a mayor’s office or drawn in bloodlines. 

That mattered.

That changed everything.

He turned away from the counter and moved toward the back room, the faint echo of Amara’s - no - Sara’s humming following him like a ghost.

This time, he wouldn't lose her.

Not to a curse. Not to fear. And certainly not to her mother.

Not again. He won’t make the same mistake twice. 

…

Enchanted Forest :

The Goblin King stood at the tallest window in his castle, the wind dragging shadows across the stone floor like reaching fingers. His fingers rotated a crystal orb absently between them, the light inside flickering dimly—a pale echo of his usual precision.

The night was quiet. Not silent, for the Labyrinth was never truly still, but it listened.

Jareth stilled.

There. A sound.

Faint—so faint it could have been the rustle of leaves, or a child’s breath in sleep. But he knew better. He knew music when he heard it, even if it arrived like a ghost carried on the wind. The notes wove into the edges of his realm, soft and warm, like something from another world.

It was a lullaby. Old. Gentle. Human.

It didn’t belong here, and yet the melody found him as if the Labyrinth itself had opened a door to let it through. He inhaled sharply, the crystal freezing between his hands.

This was no ordinary song. Magic clung to it. Not wild or raw, but something more primal: new life. A birth.

The goblins down below muttered and scuttled nervously in their sleep, stirred by the same pull that had reached their king. But only he understood what it meant.

Something had shifted. Someone had arrived.

He closed his eyes, letting the music unravel behind them. The moment was small, delicate and yet it thrummed with the promise of threads he could not yet see. Threads that tugged at the edge of his power. At the edge of himself.

The crystal glowed once, then dimmed.

“She is born,” he murmured.

He didn’t know who she was. Not yet. But something deep inside, older than his kingdom, older than the magic he ruled, whispered her name like a secret hidden in the roots of the world.

Not a threat. Not a prophecy.

A promise.

Amara.

And for the first time in a very long time, the Goblin King did not feel alone.

He pressed his hand to the glass, staring into the dark horizon beyond his walls.

“I will find you,” he said quietly. “One day.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Sara closed the front door behind her and exhaled. She survived her first day at work. She had pretty much cleaned the entire store and sadly, Mr. Gold was the only customer that came in but Sara hoped that will change soon.

“You’re late,” her mom announced, arms crossed, and one brow arched. “Mr. King allowing you to leave late now too?”

“No, mom.” Sara sighed and took off her jacket. “Alice stopped by and walked with me. We got distracted. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Now wash your hands and come to the dinner table. Your brother is hungry.”

The scent of roasted vegetables and garlic drifted in from the kitchen. Sara placed her bag that contained the folder on one of the kitchen chairs and took a plate of beef to the dinner table. Henry sat at the dinner table, fork already in hand, and grinned happily at her.

“You didn’t tell me you got a job, Sara!”

“Henry, indoor voices.” Her mom sharply reminded him and filled their glasses with water while she had her own red wine. 

Sara smiled and ruffled Henry’s hair as she passed. “It was a surprise for me too yesterday. I survived my first day.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “Where?”

“At King’s Fine Instruments. It’s a music store. Remember the one by the bakery?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “That place looks so cool. What do you do?”

“A little bit of everything,” she said, sliding into her seat. “Clean, organize, help customers—which today was just Mr. Gold—and maybe even help with lessons.”

“What lessons will that be?” Her mom asked.

Sara shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I don’t think I’ll do it anyways.”

“And did you sign anything?”

“Not yet,” Sara said, and placed the small pieces of meat and roasted vegetables on everyone’s plates. She gave Henry smaller portions since he still didn’t want to eat vegetables at his age. “I have the folder. We can review after dinner.”

Her mom nodded her head in agreement. 

“Thank you for dinner, mom.” She and Henry said.

“You’re welcome,” she said, taking her own seat at the head of the table. “Eat while it’s still warm.”

They ate in relative silence for a few minutes, the clink of cutlery and soft chewing filling the space. Henry nudged a carrot to the side of his plate when he thought no one was looking, but Sara gave him a warning glance. He groaned and took a reluctant bite.

“So,” he mumbled around his food, “are you gonna be famous now?”

Sara snorted. “Because I work at a music store?”

“Yeah! You could start a recording here at Storybooke and make music.” 

Regina arched an eyebrow. “Is that the new career plan?”

“No, Mom,” Sara said quickly. “I’m just working. That’s all. There’s no music in my plans.”

Regina didn’t respond. She simply lifted her glass and took a measured sip of water. Not a single trace of lipstick smudged. Sara watched her for half a second longer than she meant to, wondering—not for the first time—how her mom managed that. Hidden talent or witchcraft? Hard to say.

They finished dinner with casual conversation, mostly Henry talking animatedly about a book he had to read for school. Sara chimed in here and there, grateful for the distraction. Regina mostly listened, nodding and occasionally correcting Henry’s grammar with the precision of a judge handing down a ruling.

When the last plate was cleared and the dishes were soaking in the sink, Regina dried her hands with a towel and turned to Sara.

“Get the folder.”

Sara nodded and retrieved it from the kitchen chair where she’d left her bag. Her fingers brushed the edge of the folder as she pulled it out, heart skipping just slightly. She brought it to the dining table and sat down across from her mother, placing it between them like a peace offering or evidence in a case.

Regina sat with quiet authority, folding the towel neatly before setting it aside. She opened the folder with a practiced hand and began reading. Line by line. Clause by clause.

Sara resisted the urge to tap her foot or play with her nails. She glanced at Henry, who was busy finishing his ice cream, thankfully oblivious to the weight in the room.

Finally, Regina looked up. “Twelve dollars an hour, forty hours a week, flexible schedule. Did he say why he offered you that rate?”

Sara shrugged. “He said I was capable. And that I carried half the store’s brain.”

Regina didn’t smile, but there was the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. “Hm.”

Sara held her breath.

After a pause, Regina folded the contract closed. “It’s fair. Better than most jobs in town. I’ll sign it.”

“Really?”

“Honestly, Sara. I’m not a villain. I’m your mother and want what’s best for you.”

Sara didn’t want to bring up the small argument they had last night. She didn’t want to make her mom change her mind. 

Her mom reached for a pen from the drawer beside the table and signed with her usual flourish. “There. Official.”

Sara took the folder back, holding it carefully like it might vanish if she moved too fast. “Thank you, mom.” she said softly.

Regina studied her for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze. “I’m allowed to worry, you know.”

“I know.”

“I don’t expect you to tell me everything. But if you’re going to be out in the world making choices, you have to be ready for the consequences too.”

Sara nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. “I will be.”

Regina reached over and tucked a stray curl behind Sara’s ear, something she hadn’t done in years. “Good. Then I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your grandfather will be too.”

It wasn’t much. But it was enough to loosen something tight in Sara’s chest. She had few memories of her grandfather and he was the one that showed her how to play the piano in the first place. She learned how to listen and play the right notes because of him. She was sad he passed away years before Henry came into their lives. Her grandfather would’ve loved him.

“Thank you mom. I won’t disappoint you. I’ll even chip in if you want me to.”

“Once we see your first paycheck, I want you to create a budget sheet. You are getting paid more than people make for minimum wage. But you have to be frugal with your money.”

Sara nodded seriously. “I will. I already started tracking some expenses on my computer”

Regina gave a rare, approving smile. “Good. That’s responsible.”

Henry chimed in between bites, “Maybe Sara can teach me how to budget too!”

Sara laughed, the warmth in the room finally settling around her like a soft blanket. “Deal. But only if you promise to eat your vegetables more.”

Regina’s smile lingered a moment longer, and for once, the weight of the past seemed a little lighter in their little kitchen.

…

The next morning came with a golden light and a soft breeze. Sara tugged on her hoodie to get out from her bag strap. She walked Henry to school, his backpack bouncing with each step. 

“Are you picking me up today?” He asked.

“I don’t think so, Henry. I’m going to be closing the store at 6pm every day. You are going to have to take the bus.”

“Or my other mom can pick me up.” Henry grinned.

Sara let out a small sigh and smiled. Emma Swan has been here for a couple of days and Henry is already excited that she chose to stay. She knew that she needed to find a place to live no thanks to their mom’s rules. But if their mom found Emma picking up Henry, it would be chaos. 

“I don’t think so, buddy. You better be back home before mom does.”

Henry nodded and hugged her before he ran inside the school. Just as she turned to go, boots pounded against the pavement behind her. Sara yelped when hands gripped her shoulders and jumped up next to her.

“Alice!”

“Sara Mills, look at you - get up early and walk your brother to school early.” Alice grinned, cheeks flushed from the morning air and from running up to her, hoping to scare Sara.

“You act like I’m not responsible.” 

“I’m just saying, second day of work and you already act like an adult.”

“Someone has to be between the two of us,” Sara laughed. 

Alice gasped, hand to her chest. “Excuse you! I’m a very responsible chaos gremlin, thank you very much.”

Sara rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“As of this morning, yes.” Alice bumped her shoulder. “So, come on. Spill. What’s it like working for the mysteriously broody Mr. King? Is he as handsome in person as everyone says, or is that just the dim lighting in his store working overtime?”

Sara groaned. “Please don’t start.”

She made a note to herself to keep Alice away from Ruby. The both of them would make her want to hide in her room forever.

“Oh, I’m starting. You get to spend all day in a music shop with a hot guy who wears waistcoats and calls you ‘Miss Mills’? That’s basically a romance novel setup. I’m allowed to be curious.”

Sara tried to keep her expression neutral, but Alice didn’t miss the flicker of color in her friend’s cheeks. “Oh my god, you blushed!” Alice gasped. “You like him!”

“I do not ,” Sara hissed, glancing around making sure no one could hear her friend. “He’s my boss. And weird. And mysterious. And has beautiful eyes. And…not the point. I don’t even know him, so I don’t have a crush.”

“When has that stopped anybody? Remember my David Bowie phase?”

“We’re going to call it a phase?”

“Shut up.” Alice bumped her shoulder. “Mr. King is one of the most powerful people in Storybooke but he likes to keep himself to the shadows. No one but you will get to know him.”

“Alice, stop trying to make something out of nothing. He’s my boss. I literally just started. I don’t have a crush on him. I don’t want another stupid rumor about me that isn’t true.” Sara stressed out.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Don’t be upset with me,” Alice requested and put an arm around Sara’s shoulder. “I want you to be your happy self again before all of that stupid shit happened. You shouldn’t let that ruin your life.”

“I’m not. I have to get to work.”

Alice gave her a soft squeeze before pulling away. “Okay. I get it. But I’m always on your side, you know?”

“I know.” Sara offered her a small, tired smile. “Thanks.”

They stood there a beat longer, the morning breeze tugging gently at their jackets. Sara noticed some of the teachers pulling into the parking lot. “I have to get to work.”

Alice stepped back with a grin. “Text me later. I want a full report on your mysterious boss and how many customers come in today. I’m rooting for at least two and they can’t count me.”

Sara laughed under her breath. “That would double yesterday’s count.”

“Progress!”

With a final wave, Alice turned and jogged off toward the other side of school. Sara adjusted the strap on her bag and started toward the music store, her steps a little slower now, her thoughts quieter.

She wasn’t letting the past ruin her life. She was just figuring out how to live it differently. A couple of months ago, someone at school spread rumors about her and it became too much so she transferred herself out and studied for her GED. Her mom was pissed but she passed the test.

The walk to King’s Fine Instruments didn’t take long, but by the time Sara reached the shop, the early morning sunlight had fully settled over Storybrooke. The bell over the door chimed as she entered, and the scent of wood polish and faint brass oil greeted her again like a warm welcome.

Mr. King was already behind the counter, a steaming cup of tea beside him and a leather-bound notebook open at his elbow. He looked up when she entered and gave her a nod. 

“You’re early,” he said.

“So are you,” she replied, pulling off her jacket and heading toward the back room to stash her bag.

“Old habit,” he murmured. “Shops run smoother when the day is met on your own terms.”

Sara paused by the doorway and glanced at him, something about the words settling in her bones. “I’ll remember that.”

She disappeared into the back, already thinking about the sheet music section and the display instruments that needed dusting. She placed her bag in a small cubby that Mr. King had labelled “Sara” with an elegant, looping script. She paused.

Resting on the shelf was a small, cellophane-wrapped chocolate chip cookie, tied neatly with a bit of twine. Underneath, a folded napkin held a note curled at the edges. Mr. King’s handwriting flowed across it in dark ink:

“Let your soul take you where you long to be."

Her fingers hesitated before touching it. The words were familiar, it was from The Phantom of the Opera . A lyric wrapped in longing, in mystery. Maybe it was just a nod to her love of music. 

Sara didn’t know how to respond to it, so she didn’t. She just smiled softly, tucked the note away in her bag, and returned to the front. She glanced down at herself, then back at him.

As usual, they looked like they belonged in two different worlds.

He wore a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled just below the elbow, exposing the lean strength of his forearms. A black vest fit neatly over it, tailored with almost theatrical precision. His platinum blond hair caught the morning light like silver thread, and there was something unnervingly still about him like he’d stepped straight out of a forgotten painting or book from the Jane Austen era.

Honestly, Mr. King could give Mr. Gold a run for his money with the way he wore his clothes.

Sara, on the other hand, wore her oversized green sweater from an online sale, typical jeans, and her usual scuffed combat boots. She looked like...well, someone who worked part-time in a music shop. Not that she cared but still. The difference was impossible to ignore.

And it didn’t help that Mr. King was handsome.

She was going to kill Alice for putting ideas in her head.

Sara tugged at the cuff of her sweater and made her way to the front of the store. She passed the display window and began adjusting the sheet music, humming under her breath without realizing it. Mr. King didn’t speak, but the quiet scratch of his pen filled the space between them, steady and rhythmic.

It was comforting—this silence. Not awkward or tense, but balanced. Like they both understood the music of the place didn’t always need words. But for Sara, she didn’t want to bring up the note. It was a kind gesture and she was sure if she brought it, Mr. King might be embarrassed. Maybe it was his way of saying ‘thank you for not quitting.’ But still…she would find something for him too. He did bring her a cookie and she will eat it as a snack. 

A few minutes later, the bell above the door chimed.

Sara looked up instinctively, a friendly “Good morning” and an eager smile already on her lips.

“Good morning,” Marco called, a warm smile beneath his thick mustache as he stepped inside, toolbox in hand. “Mr. King, I brought the part you asked for.”

Mr. King looked up from his notebook, closing it with a soft thud. “Excellent. The back latch on the display case gave out again.”

“Figured it would,” Marco said, already making his way toward the back end of the shop with the ease of someone who’d been there before. He gave Sara a nod on the way. “I told you that he was hiring.”

Sara smiled. “Yes, thank you for the advice Marco. It’s my second day on the job.”

Marco chuckled. “Then you haven’t seen the back latch. It’s practically ancient. I built that case when your boss still looked like he was your age.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. Mr. King didn’t react, only unfolded his arms and gestured toward the latch.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Mr. King said simply.

“I always do,” Marco grinned and went to the back end of the shop.

Sara glanced at Mr. King. “You don’t look that old.”

His lips twitched. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

She rolled her eyes and went back to organizing the sheet music, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m twenty nine.” Mr. King announced.

She turned, one brow raised. “Wait—seriously?”

He didn’t look up from the invoice he was reviewing, simply flipped a page and murmured, “Rough twenty-nine. I’ve heard.”

Sara snorted. “No offense, but you carry yourself like someone who pays property taxes in three realms.”

“Only two,” he replied, entirely deadpan.

She squinted at him, unsure if he was joking. “You’re messing with me.”

His gaze flicked up, sharp with a glint of dry humor. “Am I?”

From the back, Marco called, “If he’s twenty-nine, then I’m forty.”

Sara stifled a laugh, biting her lip as she turned back to her task. “Okay, so we’re all just lying today.”

“Oh?” Mr. King dropped the invoice and crossed his arms. Sara noticed the muscles. “You haven’t told a lie to me this morning.”

“Yet.” She grinned.

Mr. King arched a brow, his expression unreadable but undeniably amused. “Should I be bracing myself?”

Sara shrugged, still facing the shelf as she adjusted a stack of piano books. “Depends. Do you consider withholding coffee a crime or just a misdemeanor?”

From the back, Marco chimed in again. “It’s a crime against humanity.”

Mr. King exhaled through his nose, something that might’ve been a laugh if you squinted. “Then I suppose we’re all guilty of something today.”

Sara glanced over her shoulder, her grin softening. “Speak for yourself. I’m practically a saint.”

His eyes met hers briefly, and something flickered there in his eyes. “Saints don’t usually smile like that.”

She turned away, cheeks warming as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, appearances can be deceiving.”

Mr. King didn’t reply right away. She could feel his eyes linger a second longer, but when she glanced over again, he was already walking back toward the front counter, the sound of his boots soft against the old wooden floorboards.

From the back, a metallic clink echoed, followed by Marco’s muffled voice. “Yeah, I'm definitely going to need to replace this latch. I’ll grab my tools.”

“Take your time,” Mr. King called, flipping open his notebook again as he settled onto the stool behind the register.

Sara returned to the sheet music bin, the silence stretching comfortably between all three of them. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, landing in warm patches across the floor. 

She ran her fingers across a few covers, smoothing out a curling edge on one of the older collections. There was something satisfying in the quiet repetition, the sense that she was slowly helping restore something to life. Not just the store, but maybe a little of herself too. 

School had taken everything out of her. People said she was exaggerating, but she hadn’t felt like herself in a long time.

Sara Mills, the Mayor’s daughter. Always held up as the example of what a model student—and daughter—should be.

One misstep, and it was chaos.

“Do you alphabetize by composer or title?” Mr. King asked from the front, eyes still on his notebook.

“Composer,” she said. “Unless you want it changed?”

He didn’t look up. “I trust your judgment.”

That shouldn’t have meant much, it was a simple answer, a simple task, but something about the way he said it grounded her a little more firmly to the floor.

From the back, Marco’s toolbox thudded onto the case. “Alright, I’ll be out of your way in twenty minutes.”

“You’re not in our way, Marco,” Sara said, turning to watch him as he crouched beside the case. The older man moved with the practiced ease of someone who had been fixing things longer than she’d been alive.

Marco chuckled. “Thank you, Sara.”

Sara smirked and turned back to the bin, fingers brushing lightly over a faded volume of Debussy. She wondered how long it had been since anyone touched these pieces or even played them. 

Marco whistled low behind her as he worked. “Still can’t believe this latch held up this long. There should be a sign for customers to be careful with trying to open. If there’s not, this whole case will break.” 

“Noted,” Mr. King said without looking up.

Sara couldn’t understand how people would want to try and break the latch on the display case. Inside was a golden statue of a man playing the violin. It was a small statue. Perhaps people were trying to grab it or steal it? It was beautiful. Maybe it was something meaningful to Mr. King?

Her eyes glanced away from the display case and startled when she caught Mr. King’s gaze on her. 

“Did I put something in the wrong spot?”

“No,” he said quietly. “You're right where you should be.”

She blinked. “Oh.” It was all she could say and she wanted to smack herself.

He held her gaze for just a moment longer, then looked back down at his notebook, the soft scratch of his pen filling the space between them. Behind her, Marco muttered something about stripped screws and ancient hinges.

Sara turned back to the sheet music, but her fingers hovered above the covers now, her thoughts elsewhere. The words replayed in her head.

You’re right where you should be.

Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe it was just a phrase, an offhand and polite phrase. But it didn’t feel that way. Not with the way he’d looked at her. Not with the weight behind his voice.

Sara felt her cheeks burned but she fought it. She was going to kill Alice for putting suggestive thoughts in her head. 

The bell above the door jingled, pulling Sara from her thoughts. A woman stepped inside—mid-thirties maybe, with coily hair wrapped in a silky scarf and a toddler on her hip. She smiled as she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and glanced around the shop like she hadn’t been in for a while.

“Good Morning,” she said warmly. “Is this still King’s Music?”

“Yes,” Sara said, stepping toward the front counter with a smile. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m looking for vinyl—something with rock? It’s my husband’s birthday, and he’s been dropping hints about how much he misses having vinyl records on his record player. I thought I’d surprise him.”

Mr. King stood, sliding the stool back quietly as he joined them. “We’ve recently restocked the vinyl section,” he said, voice calm as always. “Sara can show you the shelf by the piano.”

“Oh, perfect. Thank you,” the woman said, shifting her toddler to the other hip. The little girl clung sleepily to her shoulder.

“Follow me,” Sara said, leading her to the back corner of the shop where the soft glow of morning light hit the vintage vinyl display. “We have some Billie Holiday, a few copies of Coltrane, and I think I saw a Nina Simone in the middle row. We also have David Bowie, AC/DC, and Gun’s and Roses.” 

The woman let out a soft laugh. “My husband loves Queen. Do you have them?”

“Yes, we have ‘A Night of the Opera’ or ‘A Day in the Races’. Does he have a Queen in his collection?”

The woman bit her lip. “Shoot. I should have glanced at his collection before I left. I don’t really remember.”

“What’s his favorite song from the Queens besides 'Bohemian Rhapsody?'" Sara asked, going through the ‘Q’ section. “Everyone loves that song.”

“We Will Rock You.”

“Classic song.” Sara grinned.

“And Somebody to Love.” The woman answered and kissed her daughter’s cheek. 

The little girl giggled softly at the kiss, her small fingers now reaching curiously toward the piano keys nearby. 

Sara gently pulled two records from the crate and held them up. “Both of those are on News of the World and A Day at the Races . He’ll probably love either.”

The woman studied the covers, torn between the two. “Ugh. I can’t decide.”

“Why not both?” Mr. King offered from behind the counter. “Birthdays deserve extravagance.”

The woman laughed, surprised. “You sound like my husband.” She gave Sara a sheepish look. “You know what? Why not? He’s been through a lot this year. This’ll make his day.”

Sara slipped both records into a paper sleeve and carefully bagged them at the counter. The woman put her down while she rampaged through her purse. The little girl toddled over to the piano, resting a hand on one of the ivory keys. It made a soft, broken sound.

“May she?” the woman asked, turning to Mr. King. “She’s gentle.”

He nodded once. “Let her play.”

The toddler climbed onto the bench with her mother’s help, fingers brushing clumsily across the keys in uneven bursts of sound. Sara winced at the banging sound but the little girl was laughing and having fun. 

“She might end up being the musician in the family,” Sara said softly.

“God, I hope so.” The woman’s voice caught. “He used to play before, well, life. Maybe this will remind him. How much was it again?”

“Two for twenty dollars plus tax.” Mr. King said, ringing it up. “It’s a special we are having now till the end of the year.”

The woman smiled. “I’ll make sure to tell my friends. Thank you, Mr. King and Sara.”

They exchanged payment and goodbyes, and as the woman exited the shop with her daughter on her hip and a bag of records in hand, the bell jingled once again. The door shut behind them, leaving the store quiet but lighter somehow.

“You made your first sale.”

“What?” Sara laughed. “No, I didn’t.”

Mr. King tilted his head slightly. “You greeted her. You helped her find exactly what she needed. You made the sale.”

Sara blinked, then let out a small breath of disbelief. “I guess I did.”

He returned to his stool behind the counter, tea now lukewarm but forgotten. “It’s not always about ringing the register. A good sale is about listening. Knowing what someone wants before they even do.”

Sara glanced toward the door where the woman had just left, the sunlight now falling across the floor in a golden stripe. “That felt… good,” she said.

“It should,” he replied, flipping a page in his leather notebook. “The best ones usually do.”

Just as she turned back toward the sheet music, a satisfied grunt came from the other side of the room. “All done,” Marco called, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “That latch should hold for another hundred years, give or take.”

“Thank you, Marco. Much appreciated for your help.” Mr. King said.

Marco gave the display a final pat. “Treat her gently. That’s an antique. You ever think about just moving that statue somewhere safer?”

Mr. King didn’t look up from his notes. “It’s exactly where it needs to be.”

Marco shook his head with a chuckle, grabbing his toolbox. “Philosopher and musician. Dangerous combo. I will send you the bill as usual, Mr. King?”

Mr. King gave a single nod. “As usual.”

Marco tipped an invisible hat toward Sara. “And you—good job today. Keep the old man on his toes, will you?”

Sara laughed. “I’ll try.”

With a final grin, Marco headed for the door, toolbox in hand. The bell above jingled as he left, the quiet of the shop settling in behind him like a familiar chord.

Sara turned back to get her ipod and plug in her music, searching for Queen. She pressed play, letting the soaring vocals fill the shop as she tucked her iPod beside the register. The first notes of Somebody to Love spilled from the speakers, echoing through the sunlit space like a challenge and a comfort all at once.

She moved back to the sheet music bin, swaying slightly with the rhythm, the song weaving into the morning like a thread of joy. Something about the harmony, the beat, the defiance, it was exactly what she needed.

Mr. King said nothing else, but she caught the faintest flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

…

The hours drifted by on quiet chords and soft footsteps. Sara spent most of the late morning reorganizing the piano books by level while a gentle playlist looped in the background. No other customers had come in yet, but something about the slow, steady rhythm of the day felt productive like the store was stretching awake after a long nap.

Around noon, Sara’s stomach gave a quiet grumble. She looked up from the counter just as Mr. King stood, slipping a bookmark into his notebook.

“Lunch,” he said simply.

She blinked. “Granny’s again?”

“I thought we’d try something different.” He reached for his coat. “Mr. Gold asked to meet during lunch. I thought I’d bring you along.”

Sara hesitated. “You’re treating me again?”

“It’s the second day. Still worth celebrating.”

“Should I be worried about this becoming a habit?”

Mr. King gave her a look that could’ve been amusement or indifference—it was always hard to tell. “Only if you object to free food.”

She grabbed her jacket with a shrug, hiding a smile. “Okay thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mr. King replied, holding the door open for her as they stepped outside. 

The sidewalk was warm under the soft bite of autumn breeze as they made their way down the street. The lunch crowd buzzed faintly around them, people crossing paths, the scent of Granny’s pies wafting on the wind, and the distant sound of wind chimes swaying outside the florist shop.

Sara walked half a step behind Mr. King, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets. “So what’s your history with Mr. Gold? Are you two friends?”

Mr. King didn’t look at her. “I don’t have friends. Mr. Gold and I are acquaintances.”

Sara arched an eyebrow. “That sounds… bleak.”

“It’s honest.”

“Does being older mean losing friends along the way?”

“No. It just means that they weren’t your true friends as time goes by.”

When they reached the pawn shop, the door was closed but not latched. It hung slightly ajar, the “OPEN” sign rocking faintly in the breeze, tapping the glass like an anxious heartbeat. Mr. King slowed. His brow furrowed.

“That’s not normal.” Sara said, suddenly more alert. If Mr. Gold was gone from his shop, he always locks it.

“No it is not,” he said, already pushing the door open.

The bell above jingled, but the sound was thin, like it didn’t want to echo too loudly. 

“Mr. Gold?” Mr. King called out.

No answer.

They stepped in. The display cases were untouched. Clocks ticked on a far shelf. A velvet-lined jewelry case sat open but full. Then Sara stopped. Behind the counter, just barely visible through a gap between stacked boxes—

She gasped. “Mr. Gold.”

Mr. King was already moving. Mr. Gold lay on the ground, his cane a few feet away. He was pale, but breathing. Mr. King knelt, checking his pulse.

“Still alive,” he said calmly. “But he didn’t fall. He dropped.”

Sara knelt down and picked up a fallen piece and looked at Mr. Gold’s face. He had a bump and a small scratch on his forehead. He would’ve fallen down like that unless he had a serious condition. As far as she knew, Mr. Gold was healthy. 

Mr. Gold stirred with a groan, the light overhead flickering slightly as he blinked up at the ceiling. Mr. King crouched beside him, calm but alert, while Sara reached for his cane.

“Mr. Gold?” Mr. King said evenly. “Can you hear me?”

Gold grimaced and pushed himself halfway upright with a pained grunt, one hand going to his temple. “Bloody hell.”

“You’re hurt. We need to call Dr. Whale.” 

“No,” Gold croaked. “No need. I know exactly what this is.”

Mr. King didn’t move. “What happened?”

Gold drew a shaky breath. “Ashley Boyd,” he muttered. “She broke in last night. Looking for her contract. We argued. She panicked. Pepper spray to the face.”

Sara’s eyes widened. “She—wait, Ashley? From Granny’s?” 

The last Sara saw her was at Granny’s heavily pregnant. They were only three years apart and her mother warned her to not be involved in the same crowd as she. But there was no crowd. She got pregnant and was abandoned. 

Gold let out a bitter chuckle. “The very one.”

Mr. King helped steady him as he sat fully upright. “Why was she here at all?”

“She wants out of her deal,” Gold said, as if that explained everything. “Didn’t like what it cost her. Thought she could change her fate by stealing it back.” He winced and dabbed at his temple. “Didn’t get far, obviously.”

“You should go to the hospital,” Sara said. “Or at least file a report.”

Gold waved her off. “No police. Not yet. She’s not dangerous—just desperate.”

Mr. King narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing.

“I’ll be fine,” Gold added. “It’s not the first time I’ve been blindsided. Won’t be the last.”

“Mr. Gold, Ashley attacked you last night and it’s lunchtime now. That’s a long time to be on the floor without anyone finding you.” Sara said and handed him his cane. “We need to get you checked for a concussion at least.”

Gold took the cane with a slight grimace, his fingers curling around the handle like it was an old friend. He didn’t thank her but he didn’t scoff either, which for him, was basically gratitude.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered. “A bump on the head is hardly the end of the world.”

Sara crossed her arms. “That doesn’t mean you ignore it. What if you’d hit your head harder? Or what if you didn’t wake up? What if you don’t wake up the next day?”

Mr. King said nothing, but his presence beside her was steady, unreadable. Watching. Listening.

Mr. Gold met Sara’s gaze, something flickering in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or gratitude. “You’re your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” she said flatly. “Unfortunately for you.”

Mr. Gold chuckled hoarsely, then winced and pressed a palm to the side of his head. “Alright, alright. I’ll get myself looked at.”

“Good. Where are your keys? I’ll drive you.” Mr. King asked. “Miss. Mills, I want you to go back to the store after lunch. I will come back as soon as I can.”

“What? But…”

“I’ll be fine, Miss. Mills.” Mr. Gold said. “Go get your lunch.”

Mr. King turned his attention to Gold, waiting with quiet patience.

Gold grumbled something under his breath and shuffled behind the counter, pulling out a ring of keys from a drawer. “In the car out back. You know the one.”

Mr. King gave a nod, taking the keys. “I’ll bring the car around.”

Sara opened her mouth to protest again, but Mr. King’s eyes met hers—not stern, just steady. Unshakable.

“I’ll text you if anything changes,” he said simply, then turned and disappeared out the door.

Sara looked back at Mr. Gold, who was now leaning against the counter for support. “Are you really okay?” she asked, softer now.

He gave her a wry smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to take what’s mine. Won’t be the last.”

“That doesn’t mean you let it happen.”

Gold studied her a moment, something strange passing through his gaze. Then, with a small nod, he said, “Go on, then. I’ll be in one piece when you see me next.”

Sara hesitated only a second longer, then stepped back outside, the door closing behind her with a soft jingle. The warmth of the day met her like a question she didn’t quite know how to answer.

She glanced down the street toward the music store. The bell over the door would still be silent. The room is still waiting. Maybe a few customers would drift in. Maybe not. But she’d hold it down until Mr. King came back.

First, though, she was going to make sure she got lunch and picked up something for the older gentleman as well. The man had just been knocked out and clearly hadn’t eaten. The least she could do was bring back soup or a sandwich for him. Maybe even a coffee.

Sara turned on her heel and crossed the street toward Granny’s, her boots scuffing quietly along the sidewalk. The town was small, yes but today, it felt a little bigger. Like she had a role in it. Like she wasn’t just watching her life happen anymore.

…

Enchanted Forest :

Amara stood still as Thalia, her lady-in-waiting, carefully unfastened the row of pearl buttons along the back of her gown. The soft rustle of silk and the faint crackle of the fireplace filled the quiet as Snow White lounged on the edge of Amara’s bed, her hair loose and damp from a recent bath, wrapped in her nightgown like a cocoon of moonlight.

“I swear on the royal seal, his shoe landed on my foot five times,” Snow said, giggling as she hugged a pillow to her chest. “By the third time I was ready to ‘accidentally’ trip him into the punch bowl. But you had already tripped a lord so I knew I couldn’t and face step mother’s wrath.”

Amara gave a tired smile, her fingers brushing along her own necklace before Thalia gently lifted it away.

“I saw other noblewomen trying not to laugh,” Snow continued, stretching out across the bed like a girl half her age. “Honestly, you should’ve come to the east wing. The musicians were much better, and no one tried to ask me about marriage. Except maybe Lord…something. You know, the one with the mustache that looked like a squirrel got stuck to his face.”

Amara exhaled softly, letting her shoulders relax as the gown slipped down her frame and Thalia helped her into her robe. “I was hiding mostly in the west side after you abandoned me.”

“I did not!”

“I was merely teasing, Snow.” She turned slightly toward Thalia, who was now laying the discarded gown across a padded hanger with care. “Thank you, Thalia. Did you enjoy the ball as well?” 

The young woman paused, then dipped her head with a gentle smile. “It was beautiful, Highness. The music carried all the way to the servants’ hall. I helped some of the servants switch positions so they can enjoy the ball as well.”

“Did anyone try to dance with you?” Snow asked, flipping onto her stomach with wide-eyed curiosity.

Thalia’s cheeks pinked. “Only one of the young knights in my father’s regiment. He’s still learning…but he was kind.”

Amara raised an eyebrow, smiling as she moved to her vanity. “He’ll need to be quicker on his feet if he plans to impress you.”

Thalia ducked her head, laughing softly. “He tripped once. Almost took us both down.”

Snow snorted, and the room bloomed with quiet laughter. The flickering candlelight danced across the carved walls, brushing gold into the edges of their silhouettes. For a moment, it felt like the world had paused with no politics, no duties, no secrets. Just sisters and stories.

Snow rolled onto her back again, one arm tossed dramatically over her eyes. “I wish we could have balls without all the marriage talk. Just music, dancing, and sweets.”

“And absolutely no mention of heirs or alliances,” Amara added, setting her earrings into a velvet box.

“Yes, exactly!” Snow peeked at her sister through her fingers. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?”

Amara gave a quiet hum of agreement, though her smile faltered slightly in the mirror. Her fingers hovered for a moment over the last of her jewelry, a thin bracelet, delicate silver and moonstone, a gift from her grandfather. She unclasped it slowly, as if it had weight beyond the metal.

"Thank you, Thalia you should retreat to your rooms as well. I'm sure your mother is waiting for you and I know you wish to tell her of your night."

Thalia’s eyes lit with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Princess.” She gave a respectful curtsy, then added in a more conspiratorial tone, “I’ll be sure to leave out the part where Lord Barrow spilled his wine on the minstrel’s shoes.”

Amara laughed softly. “You’re too kind.” 

With a final smile, Thalia slipped from the room, the door clicking softly behind her. Silence settled in her wake, not heavy, but still. Amara turned back to the mirror, running her fingers through her own hair now, slower, thoughtful.

Snow had grown quiet too, her head resting on her arm as she watched her sister in the mirror’s reflection. “You’re thinking again.”

“I always think.”

“I know,” Snow murmured. “That’s what worries me.”

Amara gave her a faint, tired smile. “Don’t worry about me, sister. We had a long evening.”

“You disappeared to the gardens for a while. Did anything happen?”

Amara put her brush down and braided her hair into a single ponytail. “No. I just needed fresh air.”

Snow sat up slightly at that, brows knitting together. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Vanishing during events. And you are not even going to the music room. You are wandering outside on your own.”

“I’m not vanishing,” Amara said softly. “I just…feel a little more like myself when I’m not being watched. That’s all. The music room was my sanctuary but now that everyone knows I’m practically there, I don’t really have a moment to myself.”

Snow shifted to the edge of the bed, the candlelight catching the concern on her face. “I know court life can be suffocating, but you don’t have to carry everything alone. You know that, right? And you can ask the guards to tell everyone that you don’t wish to be disturbed. It is in your right to have a moment to yourself.”

Amara met her gaze in the mirror. “I know. But sometimes I feel like something is outside, waiting. Like I’m meant to find it. Or it’s meant to find me.”

Snow’s expression turned more serious, her voice gentle. “That sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale.”

Amara smiled faintly, twisting the end of her braid. “Maybe. Or the end of one.”

Outside, the wind picked up again, fluttering the sheer curtains across the floor like ghostly ribbons. The moon was rising beyond the treetops.

And somewhere—far away, but not unreachable—a single note of music stirred in the dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Sara waited in the shop for a couple more hours, the hands of the old wall clock ticking steadily toward six. Mr. King hadn’t returned after taking Mr. Gold to the hospital, and there’d been no message either but she figured if something serious had happened, she would’ve heard. 

But she’d picked up on the rest through Storybrooke’s ever-reliable gossip network. Ashley had given birth to a baby girl. And she’d decided to keep her.

According to Alice, who had rushed into the shop right as Sara was grabbing her things, Ashley had gotten into a car accident near the town border. Emma Swan and Henry had been the ones to find her and get her to safety before it was too late.

Sara wasn’t sure how her mom felt about any of it. Regina had been tight-lipped ever since Emma’s arrival.

But Alice had no such filters. She’d breathlessly relayed everything, eyes bright and full of dramatic flair, determined to deliver the news before Sara got home. 

“Your mom would never let me tell you this in person,” Alice had whispered as they stood by the door. “She thinks I’m a ‘distraction.’”

Sara had rolled her eyes. “She tolerated you.”

“Keyword: tolerated. Past tense. She’s never forgiven me for not stopping you to drop out”

“Yeah,” Sara murmured. “Well, she doesn’t get to choose who’s in my life anymore.”

Alice tilted her head. “Are you really closing? What about Mr. King?”

Sara shrugged, even as a small, stupid pang pulled in her chest. She didn’t want to admit she’d been checking the door, waiting for the bell to ring or checking her phone every five minutes. He’d said he’d let her know if anything changed but there’d been nothing. For all she knew, Mr. Gold had needed surgery, or worse. 

But none of that was her business. She was just the new girl behind the counter.

“I’m going to do what he told me to do,” she said. “Close up. Lock the case. Turn off the lights.”

Alice gave her a look but didn’t press.

“Are we going to our spot?” Sara asked.

“What about your mom?”

“She’ll be too busy hovering over Henry. I’ll text her and say you need help with your homework. She buys that.”

“So that’s why your mom thinks I’m a delinquent.”

“You’re a delinquent because you like to skip classes, Alice.”

Alice smirked. “Details.”

Sara shook her head, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth as she gathered her things. She made sure to put the soup and bread in the fridge with a sticky note with Mr. King’s name. Sara walked the shop one last time: flipping the light switches, checking the register, and giving the display case an extra glance then grabbed her bag.

Outside, the evening breeze had cooled the sidewalk. Alice leaned against the brick wall, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, rocking back on her heels. “All locked up?” she asked.

Sara turned the key in the door, gave it one last tug, and nodded. “Safe and sound.”

They started walking, the last rays of sunset catching in the windows behind them. Streetlights flickered on, one by one, and Storybrooke settled into its usual hush.

“Let’s grab some burgers from Granny’s to go. I’m starving.” Alice groaned, rubbing her belly for emphasis.

Sara giggled and nodded. “You’re always starving.”

They picked up their usual order: burgers, fries, and a milkshake to share. Sara endured a round of teasing from Ruby, who leaned on the counter and asked with a wink if Mr. King was dressed as handsome as the other day. Sara muttered something about him being her boss and quickly changed the subject.

Bags in hand, the girls made their way toward their usual hideout: King’s Music House.

It was funny, in a way. The place Sara once used to avoid people was now the one place she belonged to most—and it just happened to be owned by the man she now worked for. Ironic. But it still felt like hers somehow. Quiet. Familiar. A little offbeat. Like her. That’s why she questioned him the other day about the reason for closure. She didn’t even find any evidence in the place. 

King’s Music House was further away from the music store and it was only a couple of blocks away from the Rabbit Hole, one of the popular bars in town if people didn’t want to drink at Granny’s at night. Sara let out a sigh of relief when they came across the building and both girls proceeded to the back entrance of the alley, their boots scuffing lightly over the pavement. 

Sara pulled the key from her jacket pocket—the very copy she’d “borrowed” from her mom’s desk months ago, a small act of teenage rebellion sparked by feeling sidelined when all her mom’s attention went to Henry. Her mom had never noticed it was missing.

She slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open, stepping into the shadowy interior. The faint smell of dust and old wood filled the air as they passed through the closed-off kitchen, the only sound their soft footsteps.

“Home sweet hideout,” Alice murmured behind her, their flashlights flicking on and cutting through the darkness, sweeping across the empty lobby with its bare walls and silent echoes.

They stepped into the main room, their flashlights sweeping across a space stripped bare. All the tables and chairs were gone, nothing left but empty floorboards stretching out beneath their feet. At the far end, the stage stood silent and still, its worn wooden boards faded but intact, like a forgotten relic waiting to be awakened again.

To the back of the room, the bar stretched across the wall, its once lively counter now empty and dust-covered. Behind it, tall mirrors reflected the faint glow of their flashlights, cracked in places and dulled with age. The rows of bottles and glasses that had once lined the shelves were long gone, leaving only empty racks and silence.

Sara glanced up at the narrow staircase near the side, leading to the second floor. She read in one of Sidney’s articles that the second floor was a small space for VIP members to watch the stage and enjoy their drinks and appetizers. Near it was a private office tucked away behind a closed door. The dark windows indicate that no one has been inside for a long time. She and Alice tried to go inside once but the door was locked. A separate key was needed. 

She and Alice sneak out to the closed club at least twice a week. Sara comes in more often than Alice knows. The closed library and closed music club were her places of sanctuary and peace. 

Alice sat cross-legged on the edge of the stage, unwrapping her burger with a satisfying crinkle before taking a bite. “So,” she said, her mouth half-full, “How are you liking this Emma Swan? Is she trouble?”

Sara sat on the floor below, leaning back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her. She imagined Alice being on the stage being her usual self and making the audience laugh with her if she was in play or even in a comedy.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “She obviously cares about Henry. I think she’s convinced my mom might send him to a mental institution or something.”

Alice raised a brow. “Because of his fairytale theory?” 

Sara nodded.

Alice smirked. “I wonder who he thinks I am? Please don’t say the White Rabbit.”

Sara gave a tired smile. “Honestly? I have no idea. But you do have chaotic energy.”

Alice grinned and held up her milkshake like a toast. “Cheers to being fictional. Who does he think you are?”

“I’m Snow White’s half sister.”

Alice nearly choked on her shake. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Half sister. The Evil Queen’s daughter. The works.”

“Damn,” Alice said, eyebrows raised. “And here I was hoping you’d be, like, a dwarf or something. Or a fairy.”

Sara smirked. “Sorry to disappoint.” She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, her voice quieter now. “Emma’s…guarded. Like she doesn’t want anyone to know what she’s really thinking.”

Alice tilted her head. “Because she’s hiding something?”

“Maybe,” Sara said. “Or maybe she’s just used to being on her own. She pretends like she doesn’t care, but you can tell she does. About Henry. Why else would she try and stay in town?”

“Do you think she will take your brother away?”

“No.” Sara snapped. “I won’t let her.”

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the soft buzz of the fluorescent light flickering near the back.

Alice didn’t say anything right away. She just nodded slowly and took another sip of her milkshake. “Okay,” she said finally. “Good. I forgot how scary you look when you get mad.”

“Sorry.” She said and took a big bite of her burger to let her fear disappear.

Alice didn’t push. She just kicked her heel lightly against the edge of the stage and said, “Don’t apologize. He’s your brother. I’m sure my sister was the same as you when our grandpa tried to separate me from her.”

“Your sister is doing a great job with you. She’s awesome.”

“Fuck yeah she is.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, eating their burgers and fries and sipping their milkshakes, the hum of the empty building almost comforting now.

“Have you written anything?” Alice asked. “Any new music?”

Sara hesitated, staring at the stage like it might answer for her. “A few things. Nothing finished.”

Alice tilted her head. “Lyrics or piano?”

“Lyrics for now,” Sara said. “It’s weird because I didn’t have any motivation to continue my writing but then - literally just yesterday when I was at the library - I added two new lines and made a title of the song.”

Alice’s eyes widened. “Hey, that’s more than you’ve done in a while.”

“Exactly! I’m getting my inspiration back.”

Alice raised her milkshake. “To the return of the muse.”

Sara grinned and raised her milkshake. “May she never ghost me again.”

“May I hear it?”

“Alice,” Sara laughed, shaking her head. “It’s not even a song yet.”

“So?” Alice grinned. “You’ve got lines and a title. That’s a start. Don’t make me beg.”

Sara hesitated for a beat, then reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook. “Okay, fine. But don’t make it a thing.”

Alice held out her hand, like a child wanting its toy after being on timeout. “No promises. Now give it here and get on the stage”

Sara rolled her eyes and handed her notebook over. She climbed onto the stage, her boots echoing softly against the old wood, and stood in the center where the spotlight used to hit though now it was just darkness and dust.

Alice settled back with her milkshake, flipping open the notebook like a judge about to score a performance. “Whenever you’re ready, superstar.”

Sara took a breath. The stage felt bigger than it was but still emptier. She stared out at the invisible crowd that wasn’t there, then down at the cracked floorboards beneath her feet. 

“Okay,” she said, voice softer now. “But no laughing.”

Alice held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Sara closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she looked past Alice, past the empty room, and started to sing: softly at first, her voice raw but steady.

“Watching
A voice in the garden
A melody that knows me
Feeling trapped by the walls that hold her
Feeling stuck in the story she was told
Wishing and waiting for
Queen meant to be...”

Her voice lingered on the last line but inspiration struck her again. 

Little girl by a wild wood

How she tries to be someone good

But in the shadow the kingdom's caught in

Somehow, fairness is long forgotten

So will she rise or bow her head?

Will she lead or just be led?

Is she the girl she always said she'd be?

I'm waiting on a wish…”

Sara finished, letting the silence settle in the room and she looked at her best friend. Alice didn’t say anything right away. She just stared up at Sara, wide-eyed.

“Damn,” she finally said. “That wasn’t just good. That was something else. No, it was you. The real you. Her voice is being heard.”

Sara stepped down from the stage, her cheeks warm. “It’s just a start.”

Alice nodded slowly and handed her the notebook back. “Then don’t stop. I don’t want you to start disappearing again.”

Sara stared at her best friend. For all Alice’s chaos, she always knew the exact moment to drop the jokes. “You won’t.”

Alice exhaled. “Good. Because if you vanish into this town’s weirdness, I’m storming the mayor’s mansion myself.”

“My knight in shining armor.”

Sara offered a small smile, then tucked the notebook away. She reached into her bag and pulled out a wax paper-wrapped cookie, the one Mr. King had left in her locker that morning. She hadn’t eaten it at the shop. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe that was all it was.

Sara has to be careful and not think too much about it. It could lead to dangerous waters. 

Alice stretched and stood, crumpling her milkshake cup. “I’m heading out. Want me to walk you home?”

Sara shook her head. “I’ll lock up. I want a few more minutes here.”

“You’re gonna brood and write angsty lyrics, huh?”

“Obviously.”

Alice grinned, bumped her shoulder, and left through the back door. The alley door thudded softly behind her, leaving Sara in the hush of the old club. 

She stood still for a moment. Let the quiet settle. Let herself breathe.

The stage creaked as she stepped onto it again. She sat cross-legged at the center and closed her eyes. But a noise disrupted her. Sara reopened her eyes and glanced around. 

“Alice?”

But no noise came. Sara glanced toward the dark staircase to the second floor and squinted her eyes. Only darkness. She must have heard an echo from outside. Still, her pulse had picked up, quick and light, like it knew something she didn’t. She was taking that as a sign to leave. She gathered her bag and slung it over her shoulder, giving the empty room one last look before locking the door behind her.

The night air was cooler than she expected. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her as she walked down the sidewalk, streetlights humming above. Storybrooke was never exactly loud, but at this hour, it was all but silent. She and Alice didn’t spend too much time at the desert club. It was a school night for Alice.

Her boots scuffed over the pavement in a steady rhythm, her thoughts still tangled around Alice’s words and the lyrics she’d sung. A soft purr of an engine broke the stillness. She glanced over her shoulder.

The dark, sleek shape of a 2010 Lexus LS 460 glided into view, its polished black paint catching the streetlamps. The car rolled up beside her almost silently, the kind of presence you noticed not from noise, but from the way it seemed to fill the space around it.

The driver’s side window lowered with a quiet hum.

Mr. King sat behind the wheel, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. “Walking home alone?” he asked, his tone calm, but with that same unreadable edge that made her feel like he was always assessing something she couldn’t see.

Sara tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. “Guess so.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

She tilted her head, letting the silence stretch. “No thanks. I’ve walked home before. You can go… or you can go make sure I lock the shop correctly — which I did.”

He studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Suit yourself.” But instead of leaving, the Lexus eased forward at a crawl, matching her pace.

“You’re not actually going to follow me,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“I’m making sure you get home safely,” he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“This is Storybooke, Mr. King. Nothing ever happens. Just like your lack of messages.”

His eyes flicked to her, surprise breaking through his usual composure and maybe a flicker of guilt. “Forgive me for my lack of responses. I was going to text you about Mr. Gold but with the excitement about Ashley and her baby and then Mr. Gold and Emma Swan -”

“What about Emma Swan?”

“Get in the car and I will tell you.”

Sara frowned. “No thank you. I can always ask Emma herself or even Ruby tomorrow morning.”

She turned her attention back to the sidewalk, ignoring the smooth, shadowy glide of the Lexus at the corner of her vision. He didn’t speed ahead or drop back. He just kept driving, patiently.

Where was Sheriff Graham when she needed him?

But even as she thought it, she knew she was being a little ridiculous. She’d only been working for Mr. King for two days. He didn’t owe her messages or updates, and he definitely didn’t deserve the irritation she felt simmering over something so small.

Still…she kept walking. And he kept following.

“I’ll leave when I’m certain you’re safe,” he said at last.

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

“Maybe,” he allowed, his gaze forward, hands steady on the wheel. “But I’ve learned the hard way that fine can change in a heartbeat.”

Sara didn’t answer. She just kept walking, the quiet weight of his words settling in her chest as the Lexus rolled on beside her. She reached out from her  backpack and took the cookie out from its wrapper. She split it into two and walked over.

“Thank you for the cookie, Mr. King.”

He accepted his half, studying it for a beat too long before the corner of his mouth tilted upward. “Does this count as forgiveness, then?”

Sara rolled her eyes, but the sharp edge of her irritation softened. “Don’t push it.”

Something unreadable flickered across his face. He glanced at the cookie again, almost as if it held a memory she couldn’t see. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “You’ve always had a way of sharing.”

Sara frowned, caught off guard. “What?”

He cleared his throat lightly, the moment slipping back behind his composed mask. “Bad habit of mine. Thinking out loud.”

Sara gave him a look but didn’t press. She turned back toward her house, taking a bite of her half. 

“Mr. Gold will be alright.” He finally said. “He’s acting like his old self when I dropped him off at home.”

“Well that’s good to finally hear.”

The Lexus rolled along beside her, its headlights cutting a soft glow across the quiet houses. She glanced once at him through the window, but his face was shadowed, unreadable. 

Sara watched as he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and drew out a slim black cigarette case. The motion was deliberate, almost ritualistic. He slid one free, placed it between his lips, and with a practiced flick of an old silver lighter, the flame caught.

The glow lit his face for the briefest second: sharp cheekbones, steady eyes, a man carved out of shadow and firelight. Then the lighter snapped closed, and only the faint curl of smoke traced the air between them.

Sara wrinkled her nose slightly. “You smoke?”

“On occasion,” he replied smoothly, exhaling a thin stream of clove-scented smoke into the night. “Old habits. Some are harder to abandon than others.”

She frowned. “That stuff will kill you.”

His lips curved in a faint, knowing smile, though he kept his gaze on the road ahead. “If only it were that simple.”

Sara rolled her eyes, though a flicker of curiosity tugged at her chest. Mr. King was an enigma. He wasn’t what she thought he was. Her boots scuffed the sidewalk in rhythm with the ticking streetlamps that lit the way. Each house looked quiet, curtains drawn, porches dark except hers.

The porch light glowed warm against the night, a steady beacon. Sara adjusted her bag on her shoulder and slowed her steps. She turned toward the gate, lifting the latch with a quiet click.

Mr. King eased the car to a stop at the curb, the headlights washing briefly over the white picket fence before dimming as he shifted into park. He blew smoke out the window, the faint curl dissolving into the cool night air.

Sara paused at the foot of the steps, looking back. For a second, she wasn’t sure what to say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. King,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm.

His eyes lingered on her, unreadable in the shadows of the car. Then, with the smallest incline of his head, he answered, “Tomorrow, Miss Mills.” 

She closed the latch and stepped to the front. She slid her key into the lock, listening to the low hum of the Lexus idling behind her. Only when the door clicked shut and she leaned against it, heart thudding louder than it should, did the sound finally fade with the tires whispering against the asphalt until silence reclaimed the street.

“Sara?” Her mom came from the living room, still in her work clothes, and looked at her puzzled. “You’re back later than usual. Did you really help Alice with her homework?”

“Uh, yes. It just took longer because Alice was ranting on her paper and not following the prompt.” She said and kissed her mom’s cheek. 

Regina arched a brow but didn’t press. “Next time, call me and I can go pick you up.”

“Mom, please. I would think robbers run away from me when they realize that I’m your daughter.” Her mother’s lips curved, too pleased at the thought. “Besides, it’s Storybooke. Nothing bad happens here.”

Sara escaped upstairs before her mom could press further. She shut her bedroom door softly and dropped her bag onto the desk chair, the cookie wrapper crinkling faintly as it slid from the pocket.

She crossed to the mirror, tugging her sweater over her head, but froze when she caught her reflection. Her cheeks were still warm, faintly pink.

Blushing.

Sara scoffed under her breath and dragged a hand through her curls. Ridiculous. She wasn’t twelve. And she definitely wasn’t blushing because of him.

Mr. King was her boss. Aloof, stubborn, infuriatingly polite and apparently the kind of man who’d shadow her all the way home just to make sure she got there safe. That was all. Nothing more.

She’d had crushes before. She remembered the way she used to linger a little too long at her mom’s office, hoping to catch Sheriff Graham when he wasn’t busy. It had been nothing, a silly flicker of interest that faded the moment she realized he barely noticed her beyond being “the mayor’s daughter.”

This was the same. It had to be. A harmless, passing thing.

She needed to wash her face. 

Maybe splashing cold water until her cheeks stopped burning. Maybe then she could stop thinking about headlights trailing her home, or a voice that sounded like it knew her better than it should.

She was, for sure, not developing a crush. 

...

Enchanted Forest:

A soft breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and water, stirring the hem of a pale blue gown as Amara walked along the lakeshore. A worn book rested in her hands, its pages catching the sunlight, though her eyes only half followed the words. Her hair, unbound, tumbled down her back, stirred by the wind.

Her slippers brushed the grass with each step, the ripple of water glimmering beside her. She preferred it here on beautiful days like this, away from the prying eyes of the court, away from expectations and whispered bargains. Here, with only her book and the quiet, she could almost pretend she was simply a girl in a story, not a princess in a cage.

Amara paused, lifting her gaze to the wide sweep of the lake. The surface shimmered like glass, reflecting sky and clouds, broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish beneath. Somewhere, faintly, she thought she heard music.

Amara tilted her head, listening. It wasn’t the court musicians rehearsing in the east wing, nor the lutes and harps she’d grown used to hearing at feasts. This was softer. Older. A melody carried on the breeze, woven into the ripple of water.

Her book lowered in her hands, forgotten as the notes pulled at her chest with a strange familiarity. She heard the song before but could not place it. Amara’s gaze lifted across the bright sweep of the lake, sunlight shimmering against the water’s surface.

And there, on the far bank, stood a figure.

A man. His pale hale hair gleaming gold in the day light and in his hands, he cradled a violin.

The blow glided across the strings with impossible grace with the music spilling out in waves. The sound was unlike anything she’d heard at court, deeper than the delicate plucking of lutes, more human than a harp, yet sharper, more alive, as if the instrument itself carried its own voice.

Amara gathered her skirts, the book clutched tight in her hand, and walked around the lake. The grass bent beneath her slippers, brushing damp against the fabric as she hurried, sunlight flashing in broken patterns through the canopy overhead. The music guided her steps, bright and mournful, a thread she couldn’t stop following.

Each curve of the shore brought her closer. She could see him more clearly now: the violin cradled against his shoulder and  the bow moving with an elegance. 

Amara froze mid-step. It was him. The man from the ball. 

“Jareth.”

The music stopped.

The bow stilled mid-air, the last note trembling into silence across the lake. He lowered his violin and looked at her. 

The sunlight caught on the fine planes of his features: the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet intelligence in his eyes, the faint curve of a smile that seemed both kind and unreadable. His hair, pale as starlight, stirred in the wind. There was something ageless about him, as though the forest itself held its breath around his presence.

“Princess Amara.”

She has not seen him before today. The young princess was sure of that. Many nobles had come and gone from the castle since the masquerade, some staying a week, others two, but none bore his height, his voice, his stillness. She had searched the castle for him after that night, scanning every new arrival in vain. Eventually, she had given up, convinced he had been nothing more than a passing dream.

“I did not tell you my title.”

She was foolish. He had told her that he knew her name and she should’ve expected that he knew she was the king’s daughter. 

“Before you escaped to the gardens,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, “I noticed how you lingered with the King’s daughter. The familiarity between you revealed that you were sisters.”

Amara lifted her chin. “You notice much for a stranger.”

“Not a stranger,” he corrected softly. “A listener.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly do you listen for, Jareth?”

His smile deepened, though it held no mockery. “For wishes that sound like songs… and songs that sound like truths.”

Amara took a hesitant step closer, the hem of her pale blue gown brushing the damp grass. “You are not part of my father’s or my mother’s court. And yet you are on castle grounds.”

Jareth inclined his head, a glint of quiet amusement in his eyes. “The castle’s walls do not reach this far, Princess. The lake belongs to no one.”

“It belongs to the crown,” she countered.

“Does it?” He placed his violin back carefully in his case. “Tell me, if your crown claims the water, does it also claim the reflection?”

Amara frowned. “You speak in riddles.”

“I speak nothing but the truth, your highness.” 

“It’s Amara.”

“I know.” 

Her breath caught at the way he said it; simple, certain, as if he’d been waiting to use her name again. 

She crossed her arms, half to steady herself. “You shouldn’t address a princess so freely.”

“Then I beg forgiveness,” he said softly and inclined his head, “though I doubt I’ll change the habit.”

Amara tried not to smile. “You’re bold for someone trespassing.”

“Boldness,” he murmured, closing the violin case, “is often mistaken for honesty.”

“Or foolishness.”

He met her gaze across the rippling light. “Then perhaps I’m both.”

The breeze stirred the water between them, scattering sunlight into shards of gold. Amara hesitated, her heart thudding faster than she cared to admit. “Why are you here, my lord?”

Jareth’s expression softened, the teasing fading into something quieter. “Because the world is changing, Princess,” he said. “And you are standing at the edge of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will…when the time is right.”

Amara opened her mouth to question him again but only then realized she had spoken his name without hesitation, without title, as though it already belonged to her lips.

Jareth.

She has said it more than once. 

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the realization. She dipped into a small curtsy. “Forgive me,” she said softly, steadying her posture as she rose again, “for using your name so freely. It is hypocritical of me.”

Jareth’s expression didn’t harden as she expected. If anything, his eyes widened with surprise for a brief moment. “There is nothing to forgive, your highness. What are you reading?”

“Oh!” She pulled the book away from her chest. “It’s a silly book.”

“It’s not silly to you.” His gaze lowered to the worn leather in her hands. “The spine is bent.”

Amara blinked. “And what does that tell you?”

“That you have read and cherished the book.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cover. “My m - most people would say that a princess should read books that are more serious. A book about a princess dragon rider is a waste of time.”

“Then ‘most people,’” Jareth said gently, “have very little imagination. Stories like that are closer to reality than what most people expect.”

“Dragons are rare, my lord. The tale of the princess being a dragon rider is an old fable.”

“And who says that?” He took a step closer but only to lean against the tree under the shade. “Your tutors that don’t have a sense of adventure in their bones? Dragons and their riders coexist the same way fairies still do with mortals.”

Amara folded her arms. “Fairies rarely leave their realms. Most people live their entire lives without ever seeing one.”

“Yet they exist,” he countered softly. “Hidden is not the same as gone.”

“You say that as if you know the difference firsthand,” she said, trying to sound dismissive but failing to hide the curiosity woven through her voice.

“I do.”

The breeze lifted the ends of her hair, tugging it gently like the forest itself leaned in to listen. For a breath, neither of them spoke.

“Amara?” Snow’s voice carried on the other side of the lake, searching for her. 

Amara startled and instinctively stepped closer toward the willow’s veil of leaves. She hadn’t accounted for how near Jareth already stood, she softly gasped finding herself face to face with him, close enough that the tip of her fingers were on his shirt and she could see the flecks of storm-blue in his eyes.

For a breath, neither of them moved.

The forest hushed around them. Even the wind seemed to still. But her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

“Careful, Princess,” he murmured, voice low enough that it felt like it stirred the space between them. “You’ll have me believing you sought me out on purpose.”

Heat flickered across her cheeks.

Before she could form a reply, he stepped back and reached for her hand, slow and deliberate, his touch light yet steady as he brought her fingers to his lips. The world felt suspended, her breath caught in her chest as his lips brushed against her knuckles. It was a ghost of a kiss, reverent but edged with mischief.

“Until next time,” he said softly, eyes never leaving hers, “we shall meet again.”

He released her hand and was already walking away toward the trees with his violin case in hand, as if the forest itself opened a path for him.

“How?” She asked, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

He didn’t look back. “I will find you.”

Before she could take a step after him, he vanished beyond the curtain of willow branches, folded back into the forest as though he had stepped through something unseen.

“Amara?”

Her sister’s voice broke the trance.

“Coming, Snow!”

She gathered her skirt and hurried back. By the time she stepped back into view, Snow was emerging at the edge of the clearing, relief softening her features.

“There you are,” Snow breathed. “I’ve been calling for ages. I thought you’d fallen in.”

“No,” Amara said quickly, forcing her voice to steady. “Just…reading.”

Snow’s eyes flicked to the willow, then back to her sister. “You look flushed.”

“The sun,” Amara lied a little too fast.

Snow hummed softly, unconvinced but letting it go. She slipped her arm through Amara’s and started guiding her back toward the palace path. “Father is looking for us both. He wanted us to have some tea in the gardens.”

Amara nodded, but her gaze drifted back over her shoulder but saw no one in the trees. She glanced down at her hand and smiled. 

She will see him again.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Mr. King arrived earlier than usual the next morning, though he told himself it was simply habit. The other shopkeepers were just beginning to unlock their doors, scraping their signs into place, greeting the morning with the sleepy rhythm of Storybrooke routine.

He pushed the door shut behind him with a soft click and let his eyes sweep the room. Everything was as he would’ve left if he had closed: chairs aligned, counter wiped, shelves dusted. Sara had done well. More than well, if he let himself acknowledge it. There was a softness in the order now, a lived-in carefulness he hadn’t seen in years. Then again, he didn’t care about it.

Twenty-eight years of the same rhythm made it difficult to care about anything. Routine had become his armor. Henry Mills had cracked it a little, but not enough to matter. His life had long ago shrunk into this cycle: unlock, tidy, exist, repeat. For the Goblin King, it was hell with no magic.

He set his things down in the back room, hanging his coat with deliberate precision before placing his satchel in its cubby. The familiar ritual steadied him:
       coffee maker on.
       Lamps lit.
       Heater humming to life.

The shop warmed the way it always did, slowly, patiently, but he felt the difference. It was Sara’s presence. Unlike the other two days, he decided to bring lunch and made enough for two people. He opened the small fridge to tuck his container inside and froze.

Sitting on the bottom shelf was a neatly wrapped meal. Bread. Soup. Ruby’s handwriting on the plastic wrap.

He stared at it for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

She bought him lunch. He stared at the meal longer than he meant to, fingers still resting on the fridge door.

He didn’t come back. 

He had stayed with Mr. Gold through the hospital paperwork, waited while Dr. Whale finished his examination, spoke with the Sheriff, and remained long enough to see Ashley Boyd return cradling a newborn girl she had nearly lost.

By the time he fetched his car, the street was dark and the clocktower neared nine. The shop was closed and locked. That was all he checked for. There were only a few townsfolk lingering on the sidewalks, finishing errands or heading home. But he didn’t expect to see Sara Mills walking home. 

Sara, walking alone, cradling her coat against the night breeze, stubbornly small beneath streetlamps that felt far too dim. No mother beside her. No escort. No sense of fear, only resignation, like loneliness was routine.

“This is Storybooke, Mr. King. Nothing ever happens. Just like your lack of messages.”

He didn’t keep his promise and that part of the night stayed with him.

He should’ve called or texted. Should’ve returned sooner. Should’ve walked her home side by side. 

But he didn’t.

And she was kind enough to get him lunch, believing he would be back.

The fridge door eased shut with a soft click, but the heaviness in his chest did not.

In the Enchanted Forest, apologies had been simple: flowers gathered from the royal gardens, a walk beneath moonlit trees, a melody played only for her. Gesture carried meaning, and meaning was allowed to live out loud…at least away from prying eyes from other humans. 

Here…he had to tread carefully.

This world measured distance differently. She will be seventeen soon and he is older than her. He is also responsible for her paycheck, her schedule, and her well-being. A shopkeeper and his young employee. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what the town would see.

What they must see.

Anything else was not just forbidden — it was dangerous. Not to him. To her.

He could bear suspicion. Reputation. Rumor. Anger.

She could not.

Jareth would not - could not - let the Evil Queen hide her again.

Not this lifetime nor any lifetime. 

But he was getting ahead of himself. Sara does not see Jareth…the Goblin King. She only sees Mr. Julian King. 

She did not know him.

Not truly.

Not yet.

He had to continue to be patient. Prince Charming waking from his coma was no small fracture in the curse, it was proof the magic binding this town was thinning, fraying at the seams. One thread had already loosened.

But he could not mistake progress for freedom. 

David Nolan was awake. Not Prince Charming.

The Evil Queen had cruel humor. 

He went to the counter and found his planner exactly where he had left it, still untouched, still meticulously neat. Two morning lessons scheduled. Nothing demanding. Nothing distracting.

Plenty of room for thoughts he should not be thinking.

He flipped the book open as if habit alone could occupy his mind, but the motions were automatic, muscle memory rather than intention. His eyes skimmed the neat handwriting without truly seeing it. The page might as well have been blank.

Quiet pressed in around him and it was not the peace he used to prefer, but the absence of something. Or someone. He closed the notebook again.

It was going to be a long morning.

The bell above chimed and Sara hurried inside, breathless, curls pulled into a high bun and drowning in an oversized sweater. She braced a hand on the doorframe like she’d just outrun the morning itself.

“Miss. Mills?”

“Sorry,” she gasped, catching her breath. “I thought it was Friday and woke Henry up by accident — which I recommend don’t ever do, he’s grouchy in the mornings — didn’t set my alarm and it wasn’t until I got halfway here that I realized it was Saturday. I rushed through my whole routine for no reason.”

She exhaled, cheeks flushed from the cold and the hurry.

He should have answered her. Should have offered something ordinary: a polite acknowledgment of her lateness-that-wasn’t-late. 

But for a moment, he only looked at her.

Noticing the pink at her cheeks. The slight tremor in her fingers from running. The fact that she had rushed…to him.

A beat too long passed before he remembered to speak.

“You’re too early.”

“Well, sorry I ruined your peace and quiet,” she said lightly, though her tone carried a faint edge. “Next time I’ll time my dramatic entrance better.”

“With the way you sounded, I would be more worried if you did not have an inhaler on you.”

Her expression faltered, caught between being exasperated, flattered, and unsure which response was safer. “I don’t wheeze,” she muttered, crossing her arms, “I was just…out of breath.”

“Precisely my concern.”

She blinked. “I could be back in an hour if that works for you.”

“Well yes, I am not paying overtime.” 

Hurt flashed in her eyes. “Wow,” she said slowly, brows lifting, “you really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

“It would be irresponsible of me to encourage unnecessary labor,” he replied matter-of-factly, as though quoting a handbook. “You are early. Which means currently, you are… uncompensated.”

Silence.

It wasn’t anger in her face, it was disappointment. He had seen it many times before. 

“You are already here,” he said, tone shifting subtly, “which means sending you away would be inefficient.” He moved from behind the counter, retrieving a mug from the shelf. “If you are going to be early, you might as well be early indoors.”

He lifted the mug slightly in her direction. “Coffee? Or would Madame Mayor be coming in here to strike me down?”

Sara softly chuckled. “Nothing says coffee like six in the morning.”

He went to the breakroom and poured her a cup, steam curling into the air. She came in to put her things in the cubby and hesitated for a brief moment. 

“It’s actually six-twelve,” he said mildly, placing the mug on the counter for her, “but I suppose close enough.”

She huffed a laugh through her nose, taking the mug between both hands to warm them. “It’s actually a quote from a show called Gilmore Girls. But that’s okay, I don’t really expect you to know it.”

His brow lifted slightly, “Do I want to know?”

“That depends,” she said, leaning a hip against the counter. “Do you enjoy rapid-fire dialogue powered entirely by caffeine and unresolved emotional trauma?”

He paused. “…I see.”

She grinned into her mug. “So that would be a no.”

“Quite firmly.”

Her grin lingered over the rim of her mug before she lowered it again. “Do you watch anything? Or are you one of those people that believe that television ruins people’s brains?"

“Rarely,” he said at last.

“Rarely as in sometimes, or rarely as in only if someone is bleeding and you’re trapped in a waiting room?”

“The latter,” he replied without missing a beat.

She snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And how exactly does that ‘track’?”

“You carry yourself like a man who gets personally offended by sitcom laugh tracks,” she said, gesturing with her mug.

“Could I be any more familiar with television?”

Sara blinked. “What?”

He lifted his coffee, as if this were perfectly ordinary. “You implied I wouldn’t know a reference.”

“I— I just…” she squinted at him, baffled. “You don’t seem like a Friends person.”

“I don’t seem like many things,” he replied mildly. “That does not make them untrue.”

Sara stared. “Okay but Chandler Bing? That’s your pick?”

He pretended to consider. “I suppose there are worse alternatives.”

“…oh my god,” she muttered into her mug, “now I can’t unsee it.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth,  not quite visible, but there. “I noticed the leftovers. Thank you for your kindness, Miss. Mills. Again, I apologize for my oversight.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, but softer than before. “I overreacted. I just…” she shrugged one shoulder, gaze flicking toward the front window, “…thought maybe you were on your way before I closed the shop.”

“It was never my intention to leave you waiting,” he replied, voice low, steady. “Nor walking home alone.”

The air between them was still. 

Sara cleared her throat once. “Well, you made sure I got home safe anyway.”

“And I will continue to do so,” he replied. 

“There’s no need, Mr. King. But I will take that offer if there is a big storm.” 

“Deal.”

She took another sip of coffee, shoulders curling just slightly as if tucking warmth into herself. Outside, morning hung heavy and dull with a heavy grey. He doubted they would see the sun today. He watched her drift toward the piano, the soft scrape of her boots against the floor far too loud in the quiet. Sara lifted the fallboard with a careful touch, as though waking something sleeping.

“I don’t know if I’ll actually play,” she murmured, half to herself. “I just want to sit here until my shift starts.”

Julian didn't move. He merely observed with the way her posture softened once she sat, the slow exhale she didn’t realize she released. Even without touching a single key, she brought something into the room. Not light, not today of course, but presence. Stillness that felt alive instead of empty.

A habit in every lifetime, he thought. Seeking quiet not to hide, but to breathe.

He set his own mug down, fingers loosening from porcelain they hadn’t realized they’d been gripping. 

“Very well,” he said, tone as even as ever. “The piano does not seem to mind the company. I need to make sure all the lessons are properly scheduled for this weekend. My first lesson is at eight o’clock.”

“Okay, anything I can help with?”

“Perhaps entertain -”

He caught himself before finishing entertain me. 

Human phrasing. Dangerous phrasing.

He could not ask her to play music for him. She would shut herself off and believe him to be a creep.

He cleared his throat lightly, adjusting course. “Perhaps entertain the quiet for a bit,” he finished instead, straightening the papers on his desk that did not need straightening. “You’re good at that.”

He only meant to glance, but his eyes followed the movement as she pulled out a notebook. There were words on the pages which meant she wrote her music. 

The Goblin King smiled to himself. He hoped one day they would write music together again. 

…

Sara had settled behind the counter with her notebook still open, but she hadn’t written a word since Mr. King’s first lesson began.

The boy sitting at the piano couldn’t have been older than ten, someone from Henry’s class, she realized after a moment. His mother sat nearby in one of the lobby chairs, flipping idly through a glossy magazine, not even pretending to listen. The boy’s fingers hovered over the keys, his shoulders slumped in the universal posture of a kid who would rather be anywhere else.

Mr. King stood beside him, patient but unreadable. “Again,” he said, tapping one finger lightly on the music sheet. “Try to hear it before you play it.”

The boy sighed and pressed a few notes, the melody clumsy, uneven.

Sara tried not to smile. She remembered Henry’s face when their mom had forced him to learn piano. He’d complained about sore fingers and wrong notes until she’d given up and shown him a few herself. He’d been more interested in his game cards than middle C, but for a few afternoons, they’d sat side by side on the bench, laughing when the piano groaned at them.

Mr. King didn’t scold. He didn’t even frown. He just waited, the silence between notes saying more than any lecture could.

Sara watched him from the counter, chin resting in her hand, her coffee long gone cold. She told herself she was only half paying attention, that she was bored. But part of her was curious. He wasn’t what she’d expected in a teacher. He didn’t hover. He didn’t raise his voice. He just…waited.

When the boy hit another wrong note, she flinched before he did. Mr. King only nodded once, slowly, like acknowledging an effort rather than a mistake.

When the forty-five minutes finally passed, the boy jumped off the bench like he’d been freed from a spell, and his mother barely looked up from her magazine as she led him out without even a thank you. The door chimed, the bell echoing once before the street swallowed the sound.

Sara leaned her elbows on the counter. “Does it ever get frustrating? Teaching someone who’d rather be at home sleeping?”

Mr. King closed the piano lid carefully, the motion deliberate. “Frustration,” he said, “is a choice.”

Sara tilted her head. “That sounds like something on a motivational poster.”

“Perhaps,” he commented. “Though posters rarely mean it.”

She smiled, tracing a lazy circle on the counter with her fingertip. “So you just never lose patience with your students?”

“I’ve had practice,” he said simply. 

“Right,” she said. “Decades of teaching ungrateful kids how to play Twinkle, Twinkle.”

He looked up then, a faint shadow of amusement touching his mouth. “Something like that.”

Sara shook her head. Mr. King was a strange man.

“My next lesson is in twenty minutes,” he said, checking his planner and stood across from her, “with Paige Grace. She shows more gratitude and more enthusiasm during her sessions. I believe she’s in Henry’s class.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to get worried if all of Henry’s classmates end up in your lessons.”

“Then your brother has a very influential circle of friends,” he replied dryly.

“Unfortunately,” she said, half-smiling, “my little brother doesn’t really have friends. Being the mayor’s kid isn’t exactly the best marketing strategy. I hope that changes for him soon.”

“He has you.”

“I’m his big sister, that’s different.”

“You have friends, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, my best friend Alice. Since I’m not in school anymore, we try to hang out like we used to.”

He looked up from his planner. “But you miss her.”

Sara hesitated, caught between denial and truth. “Yeah,” she admitted softly. “I guess I do. She’s the kind of person who fills the room, you know? When she’s not around, everything feels… quieter. We’ve been in each other’s lives for so long that it feels weird not being around her during the day.”

A pause stretched between them but it was comfortable, if slightly fragile. Sara tilted her head. “What about you?”

Mr. King looked up, brow faintly raised. “Me?”

“Yeah. Who are your friends?”

He considered the question longer than most people would, pen stilling in his hand. “I suppose I have acquaintances,” he said at last. “But I don’t really socialize with them.”

“You mean, you don’t want to.”

“I did not say that.”

“You implied it.”

He chuckled. “At my age, you want to spend time with people far longer than thirty minutes and don’t make you dread being in their presence.”

“I can be your friend.” 

Silence.

Shit.

Did she just say that? Why did she say that?

Sara blinked, panic fluttering under her ribs. “I mean—” she started, words tangling faster than she could stop them, “not like that kind of friend. Just—friendly! Coworker friendly. I just meant—”

Mr. King looked up then, and she couldn’t read his expression at all. He didn’t seem offended but more amused, with the faintest trace of warmth in his eyes.

“That’s generous of you,” he said finally, his tone unreadable but soft.

Sara wanted to melt straight into the floor. “You can pretend I didn’t say that.”

“I could,” he said, turning a page in his planner, “but then I’d be rude.”

“I’m giving you a pass so we can both forget it.”

His eyes lifted again, steady, unreadable. “What if I don’t want to?”

The bell over the door chimed, bright and sudden. Paige Grace bounded in with her backpack, her cheerful voice cutting through the quiet:

“Good morning, Mr. King! Miss Sara!”

Sara has never been happier for the interruption. Mr. King greeted Paige and her mother with his usual composed politeness while Sara slipped toward the back, pretending to busy herself with the water cooler.

The small mirror on the wall betrayed her anyway, her reflection showed her cheeks still burning.

Perfect. 

Just what she needed: undeniable proof that she blushed like a teenager that she was around her boss.

She filled two cups with water, letting the sound of the cooler cover the way she exhaled, slow and shaky. By the time she returned to the front, Mr. King was already seated beside Paige at the piano, his calm voice guiding her through the first notes of a scale. She handed Mrs. Grace a cup of the water and took a sip of her own water. The cool water didn’t help much.

Last night, she’d been absolutely certain she wasn’t developing a crush on him. Completely sure. But now? She’d just asked the man if he wanted to be friends. 

Sara grimaced, silently begging her brain to come with a receipt so she could return the words.

But she didn’t exactly regret it. She was curious about him.

She’d never met anyone who seemed both so steady and so far away. Like he was here, in the same room, the same small town, but not really of it. Everyone else in Storybrooke had their gossip, their habits, their routines. 

Mr. King had layers. Secrets maybe and keep everyone else out.

He looked lonely. 

Sara sighed softly, leaning her chin in her hand. Maybe that’s why she wanted to be his friend because he looked like someone who hadn’t had one in a long time.

The rest of the morning passed quietly. Between lessons, the shop filled with the faint, uneven rhythm of scales and hesitant melodies that drifted in and out like passing thoughts. Sara handled the front desk, scribbling notes in her notebook between customers, pretending not to glance toward the piano every time she heard Mr. King’s voice.

By the time the last student left, noon light filtered weakly through the front windows, soft and silver against the counter. Sara stacked the remaining sheet music back into place and reached for her bag, about to suggest grabbing something from Granny’s when she heard him call her name.

“Miss Mills.”

She turned. Mr. King stood by the small table near the back, setting down two covered containers from a neatly packed bag.

“I took the liberty of bringing lunch,” he said, tone even but his expression careful. “For both of us.”

“You… made lunch?”

“I did.” He gestured to the containers. “Consider it repayment for the soup and bread you left yesterday. And another apology for my lack of manners.”

She hesitated, caught between surprise and something that felt suspiciously like warmth creeping up her neck. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He met her eyes, quiet but firm. 

Sara stepped closer, curiosity winning over embarrassment. “What did you make?”

“Chicken and rice,” he said simply. “And brought some tea. Unless, of course, you prefer coffee even at midday.”

She smiled, a small, genuine thing. “Tea’s fine.”

He gave a slight nod and began unpacking the containers, the silence between them softer now comfortable. He put them in the microwave and brought over her tea. 

“And about our conversation earlier,” Sara’s stomach clenched with nerves. “I would not mind being your friend.” Mr. King admitted. 

“You don’t?” she asked, unable to stop the flicker of surprise in her voice.

A small smile touched his lips, faint but genuine. “No. I don’t.”

Sara blinked, unsure what to do with the warmth that crept up her chest. “Well…good. Because I already offered, and I don’t handle rejection before lunch.”

That earned the smallest huff of amusement from him. He placed the tea before her, the rising steam curling between them. “Then it seems we have an understanding,” he said.

“Actually,” she countered, the corner of her mouth lifting, “if we’re going to be friends, then I must insist you call me Sara. No more ‘Miss. Mills’.”

He paused mid-motion, teacup just shy of his lips before lowering it again. His eyes, calm but unreadable, met hers with quiet intensity. “Only when it is not during working hours.”

Sara grinned, feeling a weight lift off her chest. “Good.”

“And,” he added after a beat, the faintest trace of softness threading his voice, “you may call me Julian.”

Sara blinked, her grin faltering into something smaller, more genuine. “Julian,” she repeated, testing the sound of it.

It had a nice ring to it. Julian King.

…

The Enchanted Forest:

Late afternoon washed the hedges in soft gold, and the old elm by the western path cast a circle of shade like a small room. Amara sat within it, skirts tucked neatly beneath her, parchment spread across her knees. The quill hovered over a staff line that refused to behave. A half-bar here, two notes there but none of it would settle.

She tried humming. The melody skittered and hid from her just like the other days she’s been trying to write. 

“Trying to force the melody to come to you?”

She didn’t startle this time. She looked up, already knowing the voice. Jareth stood near the hedge gap, hair bright as thistle silk in the sun, his violin slung loosely in one hand. He wore a dark riding coat today, clean but travel-worn at the hems, as if the road and he were old conspirators.

“No. I’m trying to make it listen to me,” Amara said, exhaling. “There’s a difference.” 

“Ah.” He stepped into the elm’s shade and inclined his head, as though asking permission without the words. “The eternal quarrel between composer and song.”

“And which side do you join?”

“Whichever is losing.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “You sound very sure.”

“Not sure,” he said, easing to sit a polite distance away, back to the elm, violin resting across his lap. “Experienced.”

They let the birds fill a breath between them. Amara glanced at the staff again, hearing the same stubborn patch of silence where a phrase ought to curl.

“I thought you said you would find me,” she said, keeping her tone even. “You are late.”

“Am I?” His mouth tipped, not quite a grin. “Or did I arrive precisely when you would welcome interruption?”

She pretended to consider that and dipped her quill in the ink. The point touched parchment, then hovered again.

“Where does it stop listening?” he asked.

Amara tapped the measure in question. “Here. It wants to turn toward something brighter, but everything I give it sounds…false.”

Jareth nodded. He didn’t reach for her page, didn’t lean in, didn’t correct. He simply hummed a single note, quiet enough that the leaves had to bend nearer to hear. Then another, a breath above it, barely more than a suggestion.

Amara found her quill moving. It wasn't his notes, not exactly more like the space they opened. “Yes,” she murmured, sketching the small run. “But then it collapses. Listen—”

She sang the fragment under her breath and it faltered in the same place, as if tripping over a stone.

“Ah,” he said. “It’s looking back too soon. You’ve promised it air, and then you shut the window.”

“How rude of me,” she said drily, and altered the cadence. “Like this?”

He hummed the harmony she’d left room for. It didn’t replace her melody; it made it stand straighter. Amara wrote, slower now, careful. The bar resolved to something true. When she sang it again, the elm seemed to approve.

She let the quill rest and realized her chest felt lighter. “If you had been a court tutor,” she said, “I might not have deserted half of my lessons.”

“If I had been a court tutor,” he replied, “I would have left before the first bell.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “You speak very freely, Jareth.”

“And you use my name very freely,” he returned, not unkindly.

Heat pricked her cheeks. “Forgive me.”

He shook his head once. “I would rather hear how you say it than how the court would.”

That was dangerous, in a way she didn’t have language for. 

She set the quill down and reached for the small basket Thalia had packed before fleeing the afternoon sun. “Thalia forced provisions upon me,” she said, lifting a folded cloth. “If you arrive precisely when interruptions are welcome, you also arrive precisely when pears are ripe.”

“An enviable talent.” He accepted the fruit when she offered it, his fingers careful not to brush hers. He produced a slim knife and cut the pear in two with an economy that spoke of long habits. He offered her the first half without ceremony.

“Do all listeners travel with knives?” she asked, taking it.

“Only the ones who cannot always count on kitchens.” He paused, as if weighing something visible only to him. “And you, Princess? Do you always carry ink to argue with music?”

“I carry it to argue with myself,” she said, wiping juice from her thumb. “It’s easier to win on parchment. People tend to talk back.”

“They do,” he agreed. “Often without listening.”

She thought of halls heavy with opinion, of men debating her future as if it were a tapestry rolled and unrolled on a table. “You speak like you’ve been trapped in rooms like that.”

“I am not someone that should be trapped,” he said lightly. “But rooms have a habit of finding me.”

She looked at him then, longer than was polite. To anyone else, he might have looked perfectly at ease: a traveler at rest, a musician in no hurry, a lord with time on his hands. But there was a distance to him, like light seen across water.

“Do you have friends?” she asked, surprising herself.

He considered the slice of pear in his hand, as if the question might be carved into it. “I have acquaintances,” he said at last. “Companions of a sort, when the road insists. But I do not keep many near.”

“Because you don’t wish to,” she pressed, and was startled by the boldness of her own voice.

“Because not everyone is easy to carry,” he said, with no bitterness in it. “Some things must be held with both hands. The road only gives you one.”

Amara turned that over like a coin and slipped it into the quiet. “I could be your friend,” she said, and then wanted to snatch the words back. 

A princess does not offer friendship to a man whose allegiance she cannot name.

Her mother would be furious with her.

But he only glanced up, the corner of his mouth easing. “That is generous of you, your highness.”

“It’s practical,” she deflected. “If you intend to haunt my gardens and correct my cadences, it’s better to have terms.”

“Terms,” he echoed, amused. “Very well. What are they?”

She lifted a finger, mock-stern. “No touching my parchment without permission.”

“Reasonable.”

“And you must tell me if you steal melodies out of the air.”

“I will divulge all theft,” he promised. “On the condition that you play them first.”

“Bold,” she said, but her smile betrayed her. “Agreed.”

“Do you have friends?”

Amara smiled. “Snow is my sister and my first friend. But Thalia is my true friend and lady in waiting. There are other ladies but I feel as though they want aspects of myself that I do not wish to give. I am the second daughter of the king and they cling to me like monkeys.”

Jareth’s eyes glinted with quiet amusement. “Your mother is the Queen.”

“She is,” Amara said carefully. “And she’s everything the court expects her to be. Strong. Certain. Feared.” She hesitated, her voice softening. “She says affection makes one weak. But Thalia has never asked me to be more than I am. I think that’s why I trust her.”

He studied her for a moment, head tilted slightly. “And yet you say that as if trust is rare.”

“It is,” she admitted. “At court, every smile means something. Every word hides a bargain. You learn to measure kindness before you accept it.”

Jareth nodded slowly, gaze distant. “Then I suspect your world and mine are not so different.”

Amara turned toward him, curiosity flickering. “Do you have a court, Jareth?”

He smiled and it was a real one this time, faint and bittersweet. “Something like it. Full of creatures who speak riddles and bargains that bite if you’re not careful.”

“Then you must be very careful,” she said lightly.

He met her gaze, steady and unreadable. “I used to be.”

Amara frowned slightly. “What do you mean, used to be?”

Jareth’s gaze drifted past her, toward the distant line of mountains, as if memory pulled him somewhere she could not follow. “There are seasons in life,” he said quietly. “Times when caution keeps you alive. Times when it keeps you lonely.”

Her breath caught. “And now?”

He returned his gaze to her, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Now I find myself sitting beneath an elm tree, sharing pears with a princess who argues with melodies. It seems my caution is…slipping.”

Amara’s heart fluttered for reasons she tried very hard to ignore. “Perhaps that is not such a terrible thing.”

“For a man like me,” he said softly, “it can be.”

She studied him. The man had a guarded humor but there was loneliness in his eyes. She recognized it. She felt it too, in palace halls lined with expectation and gold.

“Then,” she said slowly, “perhaps we can be less cautious together.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Together?”

“Yes.” She forced herself not to look away. “In the garden, at least. Away from my mother’s court, away from yours — if you have one. No titles. No rules. No tutors listening behind the hedges. We can be friends.”

“Friends,” he echoed, testing the shape of it. “A rare offer for someone like me.”

“A rare offer for someone like me,” she countered softly.

A princess befriending someone would make people in court jealous. But Jareth is not like them. He doesn’t want to use her status like they do. The breeze stirred between them, lifting the ends of her hair and the loose strands near his collar. Then Amara straightened a little, summoning more courage than she knew she possessed.

“If we are to be friends,” she said, “then we should speak each other’s names freely. Away from courts. Away from watching eyes. When it is just us, you may call me Amara.”

He looked at her as though she had set a crown in his hands. “Only if you call me Jareth.”

She smiled, small but real. “Jareth.”

His answering smile held the warmth of a promise. “Amara.”

For a moment, the world felt very still as if the garden itself had paused to acknowledge the beginning of something neither of them yet understood.