Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Discovery

Regina hadn’t meant to find it.

She was in Henry’s fort, clearing out old blankets and comic books before the rain set in. The sky was already bruising with storm, and she wanted to make sure the space stayed dry. She reached beneath the cushions for a stray flashlight and found something unexpected, a leather-bound journal, soft at the edges, the kind of book that had been held often and with care.

She paused.

It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t Henry’s. But something about it felt familiar. The weight of it. The quiet reverence in its wear. She turned it over in her hands, hesitating. She knew better than to read what wasn’t meant for her. But the storm outside cracked like a warning, and the silence inside the fort felt too loud.

She opened to the first page.

The handwriting was careful. Not elegant, but intentional. Each letter shaped like it mattered. She read the date, October 3^rd, and then the words beneath it.

October 3rd

She passed me the salt tonight. Her fingers brushed mine, barely. I didn’t eat much after. I was full of her.

She didn’t notice. She was talking to someone else. Or maybe pretending to listen. She does that when she’s tired, nods like she’s present, but her eyes drift to the window, like she’s waiting for something she won’t name.

I watched her mouth move. Not the words. Just the shape of them. I think I could learn her language if she’d let me.

I wonder what she tastes like when she’s not guarded. Not wine or coffee or power. Just her.

I didn’t write this to be read. But if she ever does, I hope she knows the salt wasn’t the point. It was the touch. It was the hunger.

Regina closed the journal slowly.

Her hands were trembling.

She didn’t know who the entry was about. The subject was never named. But something in the rhythm of the observation, the intimacy of the detail, made her breath catch. She felt watched. Not in a threatening way, in a remembered way. Like someone had been seeing her all along.

She tucked the journal into her coat pocket and left the fort without speaking.

That night, in her bedroom, she locked the door. Lit a candle. Sat at the edge of her bed and opened the journal again.

She read the first entry once more.

Then she turned the page.

*

The Second Entry

Regina turned the page with care, as if the paper might bruise beneath her fingers. The candle beside her flickered, casting soft shadows across the journal’s spine. She hadn’t planned to read more. One entry had felt like trespass enough. But something in the final line, it was the hunger, had lodged itself in her chest.

She needed to know if it was her.

The second entry was dated October 10th. A week after the first. The handwriting was the same, steady, deliberate, aching.

She began to read.

October 10th

She wore red today. Not the kind that screams. The kind that hums. Low and steady, like a heartbeat pressed against silk.

I watched her from across the street. She didn’t see me. Or maybe she did, but chose not to wave.

She was with someone. He said something that made her laugh.

I felt something tighten. Not jealousy. Just distance.

I wanted to follow. Not to speak. Just to witness.

I think she knows what red does to me… I think she doesn’t.

Regina exhaled slowly.

She remembered wearing red that day. A fitted coat, a pair of gloves, and heels that clicked against the sidewalk like punctuation. She had been on her way to a council meeting, distracted, late, and, yes, she had seen Emma across the street. She hadn’t waved. She hadn’t known why.

Robin had been walking beside her.

He’d said something about the weather. She’d laughed, politely, distracted. She hadn’t noticed Emma watching.

Or maybe she had.

Regina closed the journal and set it gently on her lap. Her tea had gone cold. She didn’t care. Her mind was warm with memory, with possibility. She hadn’t yet allowed herself to believe the entries were about her. But the signs were there. The salt. The red. The silence. The man.

She traced the edge of the page with her thumb, then closed the cover with care. She didn’t read ahead. Not yet.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do?

She rose from the bed, walked to her closet, and tucked the journal behind a row of winter scarves. Hidden, but not forgotten.

She told herself she wouldn’t think about it again until the weekend.

She was wrong.

*

The mayoral office was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of paper as Regina shifted in her chair. A budget report lay open on her desk; pages marked with highlighter and clipped notes. She had read the same paragraph three times.

None of it was landing.

Her mind kept drifting, to the journal tucked away in her bedroom closet, hidden behind scarves she hadn’t worn in months. She hadn’t read the third entry yet. Not with meetings, calls, Henry’s school forms. But the first two had settled in her chest like heat. Not pain. Not comfort. Something in between.

She passed me the salt.

She wore red.

She laughed at someone else’s joke.

Regina tapped her pen against the desk, rhythm slow and deliberate. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more, the possibility that someone had been watching her, or the possibility that they hadn’t. She didn’t know who had written the journal. Robin. Graham. Ruby. Emma. Gods, even Leeroy. Anyone in Storybrooke could be the author.

The journal never named its subject. Only she.

And yet.

The way the writer described the red coat. The silence. The window-glancing. The hunger.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t possessive. It was reverent. Observational. Like someone had seen her in stillness and decided that was enough.

She thought of Emma.

She didn’t want to.

She did anyway.

Regina closed the report and leaned back in her chair. The sunlight had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor. She glanced at the drawer. Considered organising the notes. Considered pretending the paragraph had finally landed.

She didn’t.

Her mind was already elsewhere.

Back home. Upstairs. Closet door slightly ajar. Scarves she hadn’t worn in months. The journal tucked beneath them like a secret she hadn’t earned.

She hadn’t read the third entry yet.

Not yet.

Just one at a time.

What harm could it do?

She still didn’t know whose journal it was.

She still didn’t know who it was about.

But the ache was hers now.

And that was enough to keep her circling.

*

The Third Entry

Regina didn’t speak when she entered Granny’s. Just nodded, the way she does when words cost too much. Her coat was damp at the hem, rain, maybe, or snow melting into pavement. She didn’t take it off.

She moved like someone who’d already survived the day. Not triumphant. Not defeated. Just… intact.

October 23rd

She stirred her tea without drinking it. Three circles clockwise, then the spoon left to rest beside the cup.

I’ve seen her do that before. I wonder if she knows it’s a habit, or if it’s something she does when she’s thinking, when the silence needs a shape.

She sat near the window tonight. Not facing it, but close enough that the light caught her cheekbone.

I don’t think she noticed.

I did.

She didn’t laugh. Not once. But when someone else did, her mouth softened.

It looked like a memory. Like she was remembering how laughter feels before it arrives.

She left before the conversation turned personal.

She always does.

But tonight, she lingered at the door. Just long enough to make me wonder if she’d turn back.

She didn’t.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I don’t.

Not because I think she’ll read them.

But because I need to remember what it feels like to witness her without asking for anything in return.

Regina closed the journal slowly. Slipped it back into her purse. Her tea had gone cold.

She didn’t leave right away.

The door chimed.

Emma stepped in, shoulders damp from the rain, boots heavy with the day. She ordered a bear claw and hot chocolate, extra whipped cream. Laughed at something Ruby said, too loud, too practiced.

Regina didn’t turn.

Emma didn’t look.

But when Ruby leaned across the counter and whispered something that made Emma snort, Regina’s fingers curled tighter around the journal.

She didn’t know why.

Outside, the rain had stopped pretending to be gentle.

Inside, the ache was ritual.

Regina didn’t move.

Emma took a bite of her bear claw, wiped sugar from her thumb, laughed again, quieter this time.

Then she glanced.

Just once.

Not at Regina’s face. At the journal. The edge of it, peeking from her purse like a secret half-told.

Regina felt it. Not the glance itself, but the shift in air. The way Emma’s breath caught and didn’t quite release.

Ruby said something else. Emma didn’t hear it.

Outside, the rain pressed harder against the glass.

Inside, the journal hummed between them, untouched but not unseen.

Regina didn’t move.

Emma looked away first.

She took another sip of hot chocolate, let the whipped cream smear her lip, wiped it with the back of her hand like she hadn’t just betrayed something sacred.

Ruby kept talking. Emma nodded, but her eyes stayed on the window now, watching the rain like it might absolve her.

Regina reached for the journal. Not to read. Just to feel it. The leather warm from her touch, the pages still humming.

She didn’t know why Emma’s glance had settled in her chest like a bruise.

She didn’t ask.

Outside, the rain blurred everything.

Inside, no one spoke of the journal.

Regina stood.

She didn’t rush. Just gathered her coat, her purse. Her hand brushing the journal’s spine as she zipped the bag.

Emma didn’t mean to look. But she did.

Not at Regina’s face. At her hands. At the way they moved like nothing had changed.

Ruby saw it.

All of it.

She didn’t speak.

Regina walked past them without pause. No glance. No nod. Just the door chiming and the rain greeting her like an old friend.

Emma didn’t move.

Ruby reached for the empty plate between them, wiped away the sugar, and said nothing.

Then, softly, like she wasn’t sure if she was joking:

“What did you do? That was frosty.”

Emma didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door, still swinging.

“She’s tired,” she said finally. “Long day.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow.

“You’re sure it’s not you she’s tired of?”

Emma smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Probably.”

Ruby didn’t press.

Emma reached into her coat, slow and absent. Pulled out a journal, leather-bound worn at the edges, soft from being held too often.

She opened it.

Ruby had wandered off, wiping counters, humming something tuneless.

Emma stared at the blank page.

Her pen hovered, then touched down. Just a few words.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, the ache stayed quiet.

*

The Fourth Entry

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the glass still held its memory. Streaks trailed down the conservatory windows in soft, uneven lines, like something trying to return. Regina stepped inside without her coat. She hadn’t planned to come here. The conservatory was too quiet, too full of memory, too easy to get lost in. But today, she needed somewhere the silence wouldn’t echo.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of soil and citrus. The apple tree in the corner had dropped a few leaves onto the bench beneath it, and she brushed them away before sitting down. She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate. The journal was already in her hands.

She hadn’t meant to bring it. She had.

She sat for a moment without opening it, letting the quiet settle around her like steam. The conservatory had always felt like a place for things unsaid. She remembered planting the tree. She remembered the first bloom. She remembered the ache that followed.

She opened the journal to the Fourth Entry.

October 25th

She sat in the library today. Far corner. Back turned to the room.

She didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t browse the shelves. Didn’t open a book.

She just sat.

Her fingers traced the edge of a hardcover she never opened.

It wasn’t absentminded. It wasn’t curiosity.

It was something quieter. Something more deliberate.

She was present. Entirely.

She looked out the window once. Not for long.

The light caught her wrist.

She moved it away, like it had seen too much.

She stayed longer than usual.

She didn’t check the time.

She didn’t check her phone.

I think she was remembering something.

Or waiting for it to return.

Or maybe both.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I won’t.

Not while she keeps showing up in places I thought were mine.

Regina closed the journal with a stillness that matched the room it described. The hush of the library lingered between the lines, not as absence, but as presence.

She imagined the far corner. The one without a view. The one chosen not for beauty, but for distance.

She could see herself there. Back turned. Fingers grazing the edge of a book she wouldn’t open.

Not because she lacked interest. But because the ache didn’t need words.

She didn’t wonder who had written it.

She already understood the kind of silence it takes to notice a wrist in the light.

To name stillness as memory.

To call waiting a form of devotion.

She didn’t mark the page.

She didn’t need to; the library had already remembered her.

She told herself it was only one entry.

Just one.

What harm could it do?

The Fifth Entry

The study was dim, lit only by the desk lamp and the soft glow of the fireplace across the room. Regina had abandoned the budget notes hours ago; their clipped margins and fluorescent highlights now scattered like debris across the floor. Her tea had gone cold. She hadn’t noticed.

The journal sat in the centre of the desk, spine aligned with the edge, waiting.

She hadn’t planned to read tonight. She’d told herself she needed sleep, or silence, or something resembling distance. But the ache had settled in again, low, and steady, and the journal was already open.

She turned the page.

October 28th

She stood at the edge of the market today. She didn’t shop. She didn’t speak.

She just watched.

Her coat was open, and the wind caught the lapels, lifting them like wings.

She held her phone in one hand, but never looked at it.

I don’t think she was waiting for someone.

I think she was waiting for stillness.

She smiled once. Not at anyone.

Just at something she remembered.

It was brief.

It didn’t last.

She left without buying anything.

She didn’t rush.

She didn’t look back.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I don’t.

Because every time I see her, something inside me steadies.

And I need to remember what that feels like.

Regina read the entry twice. Not because she didn’t understand it. Because she did.

She hadn’t planned to go to the market that day. She’d been restless, pacing the edges of her schedule, waiting for something to land. The wind had been sharp, tugging at her coat until she’d stopped bothering to fix it. She hadn’t bought anything. Hadn’t spoken to anyone. She’d stood near the flower stall, watching the petals shift in their buckets, wondering if she should bring something home. She hadn’t.

She remembered holding her phone. Not checking it. Just letting it rest in her hand like a shield she didn’t need.

She remembered smiling. Briefly. Not at anyone. Just at the thought of something Robin had once said about dahlias. Or maybe it hadn’t been Robin. Maybe it had been Graham. Or Emma.

She hadn’t seen anyone she knew.

Or maybe she had.

She hadn’t looked.

The entry was too precise. The wind. The coat. The smile that didn’t last. Someone had been there. Someone had seen her.

She didn’t know who had written it.

She didn’t know who had watched her.

But the ache was familiar.

And the reverence, unbearable.

She closed the journal gently, placed it beside the cold tea, and leaned back in her chair. The fire crackled once, then quieted. She didn’t move.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do?

*

The library was quieter than usual. Late afternoon light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the reading tables. Regina stood near the reference desk, scanning the shelves for a zoning report she didn’t actually need. Her mind was elsewhere. The journal was in her bag, tucked between a folder of council notes and a half-finished letter to the school board. She hadn’t read the next entry yet. She wasn’t sure why.

She turned toward the back of the room, where the armchairs sat in a loose semicircle beneath the old clock. Graham was there, legs crossed, a leather-bound journal resting on his knee. He wasn’t writing. Just holding it. His thumb brushed the edge of the cover, slow and absent, like he was waiting for something to arrive.

Regina’s breath caught.

It wasn’t the same journal. Not exactly. But the shape was familiar. The wear at the corners. The way it sat in his lap like something sacred.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Graham glanced up once, met her eyes, and smiled. Not flirtatious. Not distant. Just… kind.

She nodded, the way she does when words cost too much, and turned back toward the shelves.

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t want to know.

Not yet.

Outside, the wind had picked up.

Inside, the ache shifted.

Not gone. Just… uncertain.

She left the library without the zoning report.

Without answers.

Without reading the next entry.

But that night, she reached for the journal anyway.

*

The Sixth Entry

The house was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that invites sleep, but the kind that hums beneath the skin. Regina moved through the hallway slowly, lights dimmed, slippers soft against the hardwood. She hadn’t planned to read tonight. The image of Graham with the journal had unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t the possibility that he hadn’t written it. It was the possibility that he had, and that she’d been hoping, aching, for someone else to see her like that.

She stepped into her bedroom, closed the door behind her, and crossed to the armchair near the window. The moon was high, casting pale light across the floorboards. She didn’t turn on the lamp. The journal was already waiting on the cushion, spine worn, pages slightly curled. She sat down slowly, pulled a blanket over her lap, and opened to the next entry.

She began to read.

October 31st

She smiled today.

Not the smile she wears in meetings.

Not the one she offers when she knows she’s being watched.

This one was different.

It was unguarded.

Quick.

Unpractised.

Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

She stood on the doorstep dressed as the Evil Queen.

Velvet draped across her shoulders. A high collar framing her jaw.

Eyeshadow like theatre.

But the bowl of candy softened everything.

She handed sweets to children with a warmth that didn’t match the crown.

One little girl called her beautiful.

She laughed.

Not sharply.

Not ironically.

Just laughed.

She didn’t correct the child.

She didn’t retreat into the doorway.

She stayed.

Her hair was pulled back, but a few strands had come loose.

She didn’t fix them.

She never does when she’s tired.

At one point, she looked up at the sky.

Not to check the weather.

Just to breathe.

Just to be.

I watched from the sidewalk.

I don’t think she saw me.

But I saw her.

She isn’t cruel.

She isn’t distant.

She’s just tired.

Guarded.

Misread.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But today, she smiled.

And I needed somewhere to keep it safe.

Somewhere it wouldn’t be forgotten.

Regina closed the journal slowly, her thumb lingering at the edge of the page. She remembered the velvet, the crown, the bowl of candy balanced in her hands. She remembered the little girl who had looked up at her with wide eyes and called her beautiful. And she remembered the laugh, quick, unguarded, slipping out before she could catch it.

Regina hadn’t meant to laugh, hadn’t meant to feel light, hadn’t known anyone had seen it.

Her breath caught, not sharply, but just enough to still her. The ache wasn’t sudden. It had been there all along, quiet and waiting, like the moonlight pooling across the floorboards.

Regina turned toward the window, watching the silver cast of the night blur against the glass. She didn’t know who had written the entry. But the way they had described her laugh, not as sound, but as shift, made something in her chest tighten.

She didn’t want it to be Graham.

She didn’t want it to be Robin.

She didn’t want to admit who she hoped it was.

Not yet.

She placed the journal gently on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and lay back against the pillows. The moonlight stayed. The ache stayed. And somewhere beneath it all, the memory of laughter lingered.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do?

*

The Seventh Entry

The bath was drawn deep tonight, almost too hot, almost holy. Steam curled around the edges of the room like breath held too long. Regina sank in slowly, knees bent, hair pinned, the silence thick enough to taste.

Outside, November had passed, but its breath lingered, cold, insistent against the windowpane. The streetlamp flickered, casting shadows that refused to hold their shape. The mirror fogged over slowly, steam claiming every surface. Her reflection vanished, leaving only breath and blur.

The journal rested on the stool beside the tub. She shouldn’t have brought it in. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. But the ritual was memory now. She reached for it without thinking.

She opened to the ribbon-marked page.

November 3rd. 2:17 a.m.

The window was open.

The cold came in quietly, settling into the corners of the room like a thought I hadn’t meant to keep.

I found myself thinking about the way she hums when she’s tired.

It’s not a song.

Just a thread of sound.

She’s never named it.

Someone teased her once.

Months ago.

They didn’t understand.

No one ever mentioned it again.

Not then.

Not after.

It’s not for comfort.

It’s not for show.

It’s something quieter.

Like she’s stitching herself back together.

I don’t think she knows she does it.

I don’t think she knows I hear it.

I don’t think she knows I remember.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I don’t.

Because some things deserve to be remembered, even if they were never meant to be heard.

Regina didn’t move. She didn’t blink. The water lapped gently at her collarbones, but she was somewhere else now, somewhere colder, somewhere watched. The ache wasn’t sharp, but it was present, curling beneath her skin like the steam around the room.

Her hand tightened around the journal. Not enough to crease the page, just enough to feel the grain of the leather, the reality of it. She closed it slowly, reverently, like it was a body. Something once warm. Something still remembered.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t answer. She just lay back, letting the water rise to her throat, letting the silence settle. And then she hummed. Quietly. Not to soothe. Not to stitch.

Just to hear if it sounded like her.

She stayed like that for a long time. The mirror fogged. The streetlamp flickered. The ache didn’t leave.

She reached for the edge of the tub, placed the journal on the stool, and let her hand fall back into the water.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do?

*

Regina hadn’t touched the tea. It sat cooling beside the closed journal, spine up, left behind on the desk upstairs. She had told herself she needed air. What she needed was distance.

Granny’s had been quiet, the mid-afternoon lull. She had taken the booth by the window, the one with the cracked vinyl and the sugar packets always slightly damp.

Robin had joined her halfway through the tea cooling. He had slid into the booth with a quiet smile, the kind that used to mean something. He had asked if she was all right. She had said yes.

He had talked about the council meeting. About the new mural in the west corridor. About the way the light had hit the stained glass just right that morning.

She had nodded. She had smiled. She had meant none of it.

Robin had watched her. Directly. Kindly. The way someone does when they care.

And then he had reached for her hand.

Not boldly. Not presumptuously. Just enough to be felt. Just enough to be known.

She hadn’t pulled away.

Across the room, Emma had watched.

She had been at the counter, back turned, speaking softly to Ruby. Her voice had been lower than Regina remembered. She hadn’t looked over. Not once.

Until now.

She had seen Robin’s gesture. Regina’s stillness. The absence of refusal.

Emma had exhaled, slowly, sharply. A breath that sounded like surrender.

She had thrown her money on the counter. Not loudly. Not carelessly. Just enough to be final.

And she left.

Regina hadn’t noticed the gesture. Not then.

But when she looked up, the counter was empty. The ache arrived not from Robin’s presence, but from Emma’s retreat. From the way she hadn’t glanced, hadn’t lingered, hadn’t pretended.

It had been the absence that stung.

And now she sat across from Robin, her hand within his, the booth quiet, the tea untouched.

Emma was gone.

And Regina wondered, not if Emma had ever known what she carried in silence,

but if she had just watched it slip away, unwitnessed.

*

The Eighth Entry

The kettle had clicked off minutes ago, but Regina hadn’t moved. The steam had risen, curled, vanished. The mug sat empty beside the journal, unopened, untouched. The house was quiet, but not still. There was movement somewhere, soft, distant, not hers. Henry.

She reached for the journal slowly, like it might resist her. It didn’t. The ribbon marked the page. She opened it.

November 9th

I didn’t mean to pass by the house tonight.

The route wasn’t mine; it belonged to the kind of evening that stretches too long, when the quiet feels safer than the direct path.

I told myself it was coincidence.

But I knew better.

They were on the porch.

Regina and… him.

She stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame like she wasn’t sure whether to invite him back inside or let him go.

He just leaned in and kissed her cheek.

The kind of kiss that doesn’t rush.

The kind that knows how to say goodbye without making it feel like an ending.

The porchlight caught it.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to make it real.

I didn’t slow down.

Didn’t stop.

But something in me did.

Long enough to feel the warmth I wasn’t part of.

Long enough to miss it.

I didn’t sleep well.

Not because of the kiss,

but because of how gently it was given.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

That I’ll stop marking the days by what I almost said. But what I almost did.

But tonight, the porchlight stayed on.

And I needed somewhere to place the part of me.

that still notices… her.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I don’t.

Just one entry at a time

What harm could it do?

This entry felt different. She read it slowly, not because it was long, but because it was close.

Regina remembered the porchlight. She remembered the kiss. She hadn’t thought anything of it, except goodnight. Not until now.

She hadn’t known she’d been seen. Or maybe she had.

She didn’t know what to do with the tenderness in the entry. It wasn’t accusation. It wasn’t longing. It was something quieter.

Regina closed the journal and didn’t move. The room was still. She didn’t reach for tea. She didn’t reach for anything. She just sat, letting the quiet hold her, letting the ache settle.

She didn’t know who was writing. She didn’t know if it mattered. She didn’t know if she wanted to be noticed.

But she had been. And the porchlight had stayed on.

And tonight, she didn’t sleep well either.

*

The Ninth Entry

Regina carried the journal with her to the car. The air outside was sharp, and her breath misted as she exhaled. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look back at the house.

The door closed with a muted thud. Inside, the cold followed her in, settling around her shoulders like something remembered. The windows had begun to fog at the edges, softening the view beyond the glass. She didn’t clear them.

She didn’t start the engine. The keys remained in her coat pocket. The silence felt deliberate, not chosen, but accepted.

She sat for a moment without moving. The journal resting in her lap; the ribbon still caught between its covers. She traced the edge of the binding with her thumb, not to steady herself, but to feel something anchored.

Her breath continued to frost the air. It lingered near the windshield, then faded. She watched it disappear.

She opened the journal to the ribbon. The page waited. It didn’t ask anything of her. It didn’t explain. It simply held what had been left behind.

She read slowly. Not because the words were difficult, but because they didn’t rush her.

November 12th

She walked past the harbour this morning.

The kind of hour that doesn’t ask for attention.

She wore a grey scarf.

Soft. Familiar.

I couldn’t place it, but it stayed with me.

She didn’t stop at the benches.

Didn’t glance at the bakery.

Just kept walking.

Her hands were deep in her pockets.

Her shoulders held something tight.

But her gaze was steady.

She looked at the water like it had spoken to her.

Not loudly.

Just enough to make her listen.

She passed the bait shop with the chipped blue door.

She glanced once.

Her mouth shifted, not quite a smile, but something close.

Something that felt like memory surfacing, then slipping away.

She didn’t see me.

Or maybe she did.

But if she did, she didn’t change her pace.

She used to.

Not always.

Just enough to make me wonder if she knew I was there.

I stayed behind.

Far enough not to interrupt her rhythm.

Close enough to remember the way her hair moves when the wind catches it.

She turned the corner near the old mural.

The one Henry used to call “the sea monster.”

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t hesitate.

I stood there for a while.

Not because I was waiting.

But because I didn’t know how to leave the space she had just passed through.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

That I’ll let the silence speak for itself.

But today, she looked at the water like it remembered her name.

And I needed somewhere to keep that.

Regina read the entry twice. She had understood it the first time, but something in the rhythm asked her to return.

The mention of the scarf unsettled her. It was not new, but she had not worn it since last Winter. It had been folded at the back of the drawer; beneath things she no longer reached for. She had not expected it to be noticed. She had not expected to feel seen.

The mural stayed with her longer than she anticipated. Henry used to call it the sea monster. She had not thought about that in a long time. She did not know why it came back now, or how someone else would know.

There was a quiet in the writing. It was not silence, but restraint. It was the kind of quiet that did not ask for anything, but still left something behind.

She had not seen anyone at the harbour that day. But she had felt watched. It was not a feeling that frightened her. It was just enough to make her walk straighter, to keep her hands in her pockets, and to look at the water longer than she had intended.

The final line stayed with her. “She looked at the water like it remembered her name.” She did not know how to explain it, but that was exactly how it felt. And she had not told anyone.

She was not ready to ask who had written it. Not yet. But she wanted to understand why. She wanted to know why the watching had begun, why the remembering had surfaced, and why it had come now.

She would continue reading. Even if she did not respond every time. Even if she did not fully understand what was being asked of her. There was something in the rhythm she recognised. And she was not ready to let it go.

*

Chapter Text

The Tenth Entry

Regina hadn’t meant to end up in the woodshed. It was hers, technically. Just a forgotten structure behind the garden, half-stacked with firewood and tools she never used. The air inside was dry. The walls held silence like a secret. She’d gone out for rosemary. Stayed for the quiet. A stool waited in the corner, uneven but steady. She sat.

The journal was already in her coat pocket. She hadn’t planned to bring it. She had. She slipped it out and let it rest in her lap.

November 14^th

She stepped off the path.

Just a few feet.

Into the trees.

Into the quiet.

Her coat caught.

She didn’t fix it.

She stood still.

Long enough to vanish.

Not lost.

Just gone.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But today, she disappeared.

And I felt it like grief.

Like I’d been left behind.

Like she’d chosen silence over staying.

Like a candle snuffed before the room remembered it was dark

Regina read it slowly. Not because she didn’t understand, but because it felt like trespass. The moment came back to her. Not the date. Not the weather. Just the pull of the branch and the quiet that followed. Disappearance hadn’t been the plan. But the wanting had. Just for a minute. Just long enough to not be anyone.

The line stayed with her. Like I’d been left behind. It wasn’t accusation. It was ache. And it landed. She hadn’t known she’d been seen. Or maybe she had. Maybe that was the danger.

Her gaze moved around the woodshed. The stacked logs. The rusted tools. The rosemary still in her hand. None of it felt like hers. But the silence did. The journal was closed gently and placed on the stool beside her. The weight didn’t leave. It settled. She stayed until the light shifted. Until the quiet stopped feeling like escape and started feeling like memory.

Regina wasn’t ready to ask who had written it. But she was no longer pretending she didn’t want to be found.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do?

*

Regina had not intended to stay long. She had entered Granny’s for warmth, not conversation, and certainly not clarity. The mid-afternoon lull had settled over the diner like a blanket, soft and unobtrusive. She took her accustomed booth by the window, the one with the cracked vinyl and the sugar packets that always seemed slightly damp. Her tea sat cooling beside her, untouched.

Ruby moved through the space with quiet ease. Her sleeves were rolled, her hair loosely pinned, and a smear of flour marked her wrist. She wiped down the counter, refilled mugs, and cleared plates. She did not speak to Regina, but offered a slight nod to her presence.

At one point, Ruby paused near the register. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small brown leather-bound book. It was not new. The edges were worn, the spine softened from use. She opened it briefly, glanced at something inside, then closed it and tucked it away again. The gesture was not dramatic. It was not secretive. But it was careful. Intentional.

Regina saw it. Not the words. Not the page. Just the way Ruby’s thumb lingered at the edge. Just the way her breath caught before she closed it.

She dares not ask.

She dares not interrupt.

Ruby returned to the counter. She moved with ease, her gestures steady, her presence quiet. She did not look over. She did not speak. But the book remained in her apron, a tether humming between them.

Regina sat for a while longer; her hands wrapped around the warmth of a mug she had not sipped. She did not open the journal in her bag. She did not need to. The thrum was already present. The clue already marked.

She left without speaking. Ruby nodded once. Regina nodded back.

Outside, the wind had softened. Inside, something had been noticed.

She would read again. She always did.

But now she wondered.

*

The Eleventh Entry

Regina hadn’t planned to visit the crypt that afternoon. The rain had been steady since morning, soft and insistent, and the ache in her chest had settled in quietly, low, familiar, without urgency. She had tried to ignore it. She had folded laundry, reheated soup, rearranged the books on the shelf. Henry had passed through the kitchen twice, once to fetch his coat, once to rifle through draws for his torch. He’d glanced at the cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands, then at her boots by the door, and said nothing.

She was grateful for that.

The path to the graveyard was known to her feet. The leaves clung to her boots as she walked, damp and stubborn, like memory refusing to be shaken off. She didn’t rush. She never did. The older stones leaned into one another like tired shoulders, and her father’s crypt sat low in the earth, tucked behind the yew trees. The door was carved with initials, nothing more. She pressed her palm to the stone, waited for the latch to give, and stepped inside.

The air was cool, still, marked by the scent of old stone and cedar. She lit the lantern with practiced ease, placed it on the shelf beside the folded blanket, and sat on the bench opposite the plaque. The space was small, but it held her. It always had.

She hadn’t brought flowers. She hadn’t brought offerings. Just the journal. It was still warm from her hands. She unwrapped it slowly, letting the cloth fall into her lap, and placed the book beside her. The wind moved through the trees outside without ceremony. The stone held its silence.

She opened the journal carefully, as if it might bruise.

She turned to the ribbon-marked page.

November 17th

She sat in the car tonight.

Not parked in her usual spot.

A little further down.

Where the trees start to lean in.

The door stayed open longer than it needed to.

One hand on the wheel.

The other resting in her lap.

Her face scrunched.

The way it does when the tears come.

Not all at once.

Just enough to change the shape of her mouth.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t wipe her face.

The light from the streetlamp caught her jaw.

I don’t think she noticed.

I did.

She stayed.

Long enough to make me wonder if she’d drive away.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I don’t.

Not because I think she’ll read them.

But because I need to remember

What it feels like to witness her, when the silence arrives, and she lets it stay.

Regina read the entry in stunned silence. Not because it startled her, but because it recognised something she hadn’t named aloud, and it landed too precisely. The moment returned without effort. Not her car. Not the weather. Just the stillness. Just the way her mouth had folded before the tears arrived.

She hadn’t planned to stay. She hadn’t planned to cry. But both had happened, and neither had felt like a decision.

The line What it feels like to witness her, when the silence arrives, and she lets it stay, stayed with her. It wasn’t softened. It wasn’t embellished. It was exact. And it held.

Regina hadn’t known she’d been seen. Or perhaps she had. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t moved. The danger was never in being watched. It was in being compromised.

She looked around her father’s crypt. The closed door. The folded blanket. The journal still in her hands. None of it felt unfamiliar. But the ache did.

She stood. Not abruptly. Just enough to shift the weight. The cloth was smoothed once, then folded around the journal with care. She tucked it into her coat pocket. Not hidden. Not offered. Just held.

The light had changed. The quiet hadn’t. But something in her had. Retreat no longer fit. Memory did.

She wasn’t ready to ask who had written it. But she was no longer pretending she hadn’t been found.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do.

*

The Twelfth Entry

Regina lit the fire in the lounge. The scent lingered. The bowl of clementines sat within easy reach. One peel curled beside the matches. Lights on the windowsill flickered once, then held.

She hadn’t brought the Christmas tree in yet. It leaned against the hallway wall where Henry left it. Still wrapped. Still waiting. Not forgotten. Just not ready.

She hadn’t meant to keep reading. It felt like an invasion. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Just close. Too close.

But she couldn’t stop. The entries compelled her. Not with language, but with weight. With the way they settled. Not pain. Not comfort. Something in between.

She remembered the first time she opened it. The way the cloth folded back. The way the silence shifted.

She remembered the second. The third. The seventh.

She remembered not meaning to. And doing it anyway.

Twelve days of reading. Two weeks until Christmas. The journal lay in her lap. Cloth unwrapped. Weight familiar.

She shifted the blanket over her legs.

She measured the days in pages now.

November 23rd

She didn’t look at me tonight.

Not once.

He was beside her.

Close.

Not touching.

But close enough.

She laughed.

Just once.

At something he said.

Her hand stayed at her side.

She didn’t reach for him.

She didn’t reach for me either.

I didn’t ask.

Didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t move.

She walked past me on her way out. Something citrus, bright, familiar. Like summer bottled. Like wanting.

The scarf was new.

Dark green.

His colour.

She didn’t wear it last week.

I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter.

But it matters.

I knew before tonight.

But knowing isn’t the same as being told.

And she didn’t say a word.

Not to me.

She didn’t lie.

She just didn’t let me in.

I stayed.

Long enough to watch the door close behind her.

Long enough to feel the silence settle. Not quiet. Not peace. Just the shape of everything she didn’t choose.

I keep thinking I’ll stop writing these.

But I don’t.

Not while she keeps choosing him.

In places where I thought there could be an us.

Regina closed the journal slowly, her thumb lingering at the edge of the page. The words did not stay bound. They slipped into her chest, heavy, insistent, like stones dropped into still water.

In places I thought there could be an us.

Her breath caught. Not sharply. Just enough to remind her of the hollow beneath her ribs.

It was not the scarf she felt. Not the scent. Not even the laugh. It was the shape of that sentence, pressing against her like a hand she could not see.

She wasn’t ready to ask whose hand had shaped the words. But she could no longer pretend they hadn’t reached her.

The ache rose quiet, patient.

She turned toward the window. The glass blurred, night and reflection folding into one another. She could not tell which side of the pane she belonged to.

She sank back against the sofa, the weight of the words still inside her. They pulsed like a second heartbeat, steady, unrelenting.

In places I thought there could be an us.

The words pressed against her in the quiet, as though the page had not been folded away at all.

She did not move. She did not speak. She let the ache remain.

The rule had always been to take it slowly, to let the words settle. But the ache no longer obeyed. It pressed against her, restless, insistent, asking to be carried beyond the page.

She could not name the hand that had written. Not yet. But she could no longer bear the weight of every possibility.

Someone had to be set aside. Someone had to be released from the ache.

Only then could she face what remained.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do.

*

Regina had not intended to stop. She was driving home, but the sheer weight of the last journal entry, the crushing finality of the unchosen us, demanded a resolution. She needed to rule out the kind, safe suspect. She needed to shed one lie before she could face the truth.

She saw him at the edge of the town square. Graham was standing by his cruiser, hunched over the hood, speaking with a delivery driver about a blocked lane. The late afternoon light caught the edge of his uniform, casting a soft gleam across the fabric.

Regina pulled over. The car engine continued to idle, offering her a thin shield of glass and metal. She remained inside.

Graham was smiling. His expression was easy, social, and entirely present. He gestured with his hand, a large, practical movement, as he explained the route change. He was not aware that he was being watched.

The delivery driver handed him a slip of paper. Graham glanced at it once, then folded it with a crisp, efficient motion and tucked it into his breast pocket. It was an administrative act, devoid of emotion.

Regina watched his hands. She noted the way they moved: functional, deliberate, unsentimental. There was no lingering, no reverence, no gentleness in his handling of the paper. It was a tool, not a secret. He did not rub the edge with his thumb. He did not pause to let the silence settle. He simply filed the information away and turned to enter the cruiser, his mind already on the next task.

The observation was quiet, yet total. Graham was kind, and he was available, but his attention was broad, outward facing, uncompromisingly practical. He was not the keeper of private, quiet habits. He was not the chronicler of whispered grief. He was not the one who heard her humming.

Regina shifted the car into drive. The certainty did not arrive as a sudden thought, but as a slow, cold release of tension in her chest. He had not written it.

The relief was sharp, but brief. With Graham definitively ruled out, the possibility that remained felt less like a chance and more like a heavy, singular truth.

She drove toward home. The knowledge settled, undeniable. She had not needed to speak to him. She had only needed to witness him.

And as the road stretched ahead, quiet, and unremarkable, the ache remained, steady and insistent, settling into the silence as though it had always belonged there.

*

The Missing Entry

The mansion was cold. Regina did not bother with the fire. She made straight for the armchair in the lounge, the one facing the dark window, and unwrapped the journal. Graham was ruled out. The truth was singular, heavy, unavoidable. Like the cold settling into the bones of the house. Not biting. Just claiming.

She did not hesitate. The journal lay open on her lap, the pages fanned by her thumb. She had simply opened it, expecting the next quiet act of watching.

The last date was November 23rd. The entry had ended with the brutal ache of the unchosen us. The next page was dated November 28th. Five days missing. Five days unaccounted for.

She turned back and stopped. The page was gone. Not blank. Not stained. Gone.

The edge of the remaining sheet was ragged, a soft white tear running down the binding like a wound that had not been allowed to scar.

Her breath caught. Not sharply. Just enough to remind her of the hollow beneath her ribs.

She ran her finger along the torn edge. It was not a neat cut. It was a furious, hasty rip. Not to tidy. Not to forget. To erase.

She flipped back to the Twelfth Entry. The final words stared up at her: “…she keeps choosing him. In places where I thought there could be an us.”

What had been written on the missing page? What despair. What decision. What act of erasure had demanded destruction.

The absence was louder than words. It spoke of crisis. Of reversal. Of something the author could not bear to leave behind. Not even in silence.

Regina closed the journal with slow, measured hands. The relief she had felt after ruling out Graham was gone. Replaced by something colder. Not panic. Not grief. Just dread. Sharp and still.

The author had moved. They had broken the ritual. Not abandoned it. But faltered. The watching had become unbearable. And the page had been destroyed.

She did not know what had been written. Only that it had been too much to leave behind. The gentle surveillance had been interrupted.

The journal was only paper and leather. Yet in her hands it felt heavy, vibrating with the ghost of the missing page. Like a bell that had been struck and silenced before it could ring.

She looked toward the window. The glass reflected her own face. Taut. Shadowed. Half-submerged in the dark.

She was not ready to ask. But the silence no longer felt like sanctuary.

The ache remained. But now it carried urgency. Not loud. Not sudden. Just steady. Like a tide that had begun to rise.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do.

*

The Fourteenth Entry.

Regina sat in the Town Hall Archives, a space of intentional oblivion.

The room was tucked into the oldest part of the building, accessible only by a steep, rarely-used staircase. It smelled of brittle paper, dry dust, and cold ink, the scent of history filed away and forgotten. No one would disturb her here. The rows of silent, steel filing cabinets held the town’s birth records, old budgets, and land deeds. They did not care who she was or what she needed.

She had come under the pretence of locating a misplaced deed. Now she sat on an overturned wooden crate, the single bare bulb above her casting harsh light on the journal in her lap. The act of reading had become the most deliberate thing she did all day.

She did not rush. She did not brace. She simply unwrapped the book.

She turned the page.

November 28th

I saw her.

Not planned.

Not prepared.

Just a corner turned too quickly.

Outside Granny’s.

He touched her back.

A casual, possessive weight.

She didn’t move.

It was a micro-moment.

Small. A needle-prick in a membrane.

But it split the world.

The air cracked around me,

like glass under impossible pressure.

Like the final page torn

not before the ink dries,

but before the hope dies.

I drove.

A desperate, blind escape.

Just the back roads.

The ones where the trees close in

and the signal drops.

Where I hoped my own heart would disappear.

I ripped it out.

The page. The one where I said too much.

The one where the pain was visible.

A furious, self-mutilating tear.

I drove until the adrenaline wore off.

and the silence stopped screaming my name.

I stopped near the reservoir.

The air bit down hard, a reminder of cold reality.

The water was dead flat.

It didn’t move.

It didn’t care.

About his easy hand.

About my unwanted devotion.

About the life she chose.

I realised something colder than the reservoir.

Ripping out the words

doesn’t make them less true.

It just buries the wound deeper.

It makes the grief.

less witnessed.

And grief unwitnessed is just loneliness.

And then I drove back.

I didn’t try to retrieve the page.

It’s gone. A piece of myself dissolving in the rain.

I drove back.

because the silence here, the silence of the ritual,

is the only silence that still knows my name.

Because the grief,

when it’s written, is mine to hold.

But the grief outside, that’s a crushing, homeless weight.

The ache is the same.

The difference is the ritual.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But the missing page didn’t save me.

It only proved

how much I needed the words that followed.

To survive the words that came before.

Regina didn’t move. The journal rested in her lap, still warm from her hands. The pages pulsed with panic. Not softened. Not resolved. Just held. Like heat trapped beneath skin.

The confession had been complete. The furious, self-mutilating tear. The desperate, blind driving. The moment of acute self-awareness by the unmoving reservoir water. It explained the missing page, but it did not lessen the ache. It only proved how much had been needed. How much had survived.

One line stayed with her. It echoed through the silence. “The missing page didn’t save me. It only proved how much I needed the words that followed.” It rang through her like memory. Not sharp. Not loud. Just steady. The bell had been struck, and it refused to fade.

This was not just about an unchosen love. It was about the failure of self-erasure. The ritual had been broken. The ache had endured. The need for a witness had refused to be torn. Even in collapse, the words had insisted on being found.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t answer. She just sat with it. The ache curled beneath her skin. The silence settled. The steam rose around her, soft and persistent. The bell kept humming beneath it all.

She placed the journal on the old wooden crate. Not reverently. Not carelessly. Just enough to feel the grain of the leather. Just enough to remember it had been warm once. Something once held. Something still remembered.

She needed the words. Not to understand. Not to forgive. Just to know her own silence had not gone unseen. That her ache had been real. That it had been witnessed, even if only in fragments. Even if it bled like ink into rain.

The cold air of the Archives no longer mattered. What mattered was the proximity of the next entry. And the quiet, inescapable truth of the person behind the pen. A soul sharpened by longing. Not dramatic. Not loud. Like tidewater rising against a locked door, or breath held too long.

She was ready to be found. But she did not need to be rescued. She needed to know where this person had faltered. Where the hiding had become unbearable. Where the ache had turned into ritual. Where the silence had begun to hum.

She needed the missing page. The broken truth the author could not bear to leave behind. The moment of collapse. The wound was not the tear in the paper. It was the unwitnessed words. The ones that dissolved in the rain. The ones that refused to hold their shape. The ones that still stained.

The quiet truth she had been seeking was no longer a question of who. It had become a quiet urgency of where. And how soon.

The silence had served its purpose.

The pages would not let her stay still.

Just one entry at a time.

What harm could it do.

*

Regina didn’t take the time to change. Her coat was on, the keys were in her hand, and the journal, closed and wrapped tight in its cloth, was placed carefully on the passenger seat. Not tossed. Not stowed. Placed. Like a map leading to a grave.

The search was not reckless. It was surgical. She drove the perimeter roads slowly, her eyes sweeping the wet asphalt and the tangled shoulders, seeking the description: the back roads where the trees close in and the signal drops.

She turned onto the old access road. The trees closed in immediately, their wet branches scratching the air. The road was barely maintained, rutted and slick. The silence was instant. Heavy. Absolute. It broke only for the low, anxious hum of the engine, and even that felt like intrusion.

She drove for what felt like miles, her speed just above idling. She was searching for a specific kind of stillness. Not peace. Not quiet. The kind of absolute, punishing solitude the author had chosen for their failure. The kind that stains.

Then she saw it.

A small pull-off, a space just wide enough for a single car. The mud churned once, recently. A wound in the earth. It was here the author had stopped.

Regina cut the engine. The resulting silence was immediate. It didn’t bite. It settled. She didn’t feel the cold at first. She felt the ghost of the scene: the door thrown open, the collapse, the paper ripped. The ritual undone.

She moved toward the edge of the embankment. The author had written, “lost to the rain now.” But Regina needed the stain. She needed the proof of the words’ endurance. Not the memory. The residue.

She knelt. The cold seeped through her coat and tailored trousers, but the sensation was distant. Her hand moved without hesitation, parting the wet pine needles and matted leaves. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just steady, as if the act itself might summon what was buried.

And then, she felt it. Not paper. Not quite.

A tiny fragment. A corner, stiffened and darkened by days of rain, clinging stubbornly to a clump of moss. It was almost black, the ink faint against the pulped surface. Not clear. Not intact. But still present. Something that had endured.

Her breath caught. Not sharply. Just enough to still her.

She lifted it. Held it closer. Tilted it toward the weak, flat light. The rain had chosen which words to preserve, staining the parchment with what remained of the author’s surrender.

She read slowly. Carefully. Her finger traced the dissolved ink, not to decode, but to witness. The methodical reader meeting the ruin.

The first lines held:

The scarf. His colour. On her. It’s a chain-link closing. A VERDICT. I am the filth left over.

The next phrase was gone. A smear. A loss.

It’s not the choosing. It’s the betrayal of silence.

Nothing remained of the betrayal’s context. Just a black stain where the ache had been.

She kept reading. Not to understand. Just to remain with what hadn’t dissolved.

I am not writing a devotion. I am recording a death. I was a beggar outside her window.

A large smear distorted the next line. She leaned in.

The ache isn’t pain. It’s toxin. It’s a rot.

She squeezed the fragment. The truth was there, but unreachable. Raw. Ruined.

A long gap. Only fragments. Phrases.

The only math that matters is ZERO. The answer is the unmaking. I will not leave this gaping, shameful ruin behind. This invisible longing is a…

She almost stamped her foot. A wet hole sat where the pen should have given her an answer. The ink had washed away.

Her breath hitched. Not in grief. In frustration. She couldn’t see the accusation. Only the devastation.

But the final line remained.

The risk was always yours, Regina. I told you. Not me. Not silence. I am unmaking myself, starting now.

The full confession was lost. But the surrender had already begun.

Regina stood slowly, the fragment clutched tight. Her fingers tightened. The relief had already dissolved. What remained was frustration. The author had made a decision, issued a challenge, and then destroyed the evidence of their own intent. What remained was jagged. Consequence without clarity.

The retrieval was complete. But the silence did not return. It had been broken by an accusation she hadn’t been there to hear. And now it settled. Just enough to hum beneath her ribs.

The urgency didn’t rise. It deepened. The author hadn’t just collapsed. They had chosen. And now they were waiting.

Regina climbed back into the car. The fragment was placed beside the journal. Not tucked. Not folded. Witnessed.

The quiet truth was no longer a question of where.

It had begun to hum.

It was no longer waiting.

It was arriving.

*

Regina had driven straight from the old access road.

She had not spoken. She had not turned on the radio. The fragment remained in her coat pocket, damp and folded. She had not looked at it again.

The road had been slick. Her hands had remained steady. Her breath had not.

She was cold. Not from the rain. From the ache. It had settled in her chest like a stone dropped in water, quiet, but deep.

She was tired. Not from the drive. From the weight of what she had read. From the silence that followed.

She was frayed. Not broken. Just holding too much. Like a thread pulled taut, waiting to snap.

By the time she reached Granny’s, she was soaked through. Her coat clung to her shoulders. Her hair was damp. Her boots left faint prints across the tile.

She did not pause at the counter. She did not greet anyone. She took her usual booth, the one near the window, angled for quiet observation. The one that allowed her to watch without being watched.

Regina sat with the journal beside her. It was closed, heavy, untouched. She had not reached for it. Not yet. She needed to regroup, to settle, to think. The ache had not eased, nor had it sharpened. It remained, steady and low, like a hum beneath her ribs.

Her eyes stayed on the door. The author was a creature of habit, of observation. If the journal had a pulse, it beat here.

The bell above the diner door jingled. Ruby stepped inside. Regina’s breath caught. The possibility still held, the lonely wolf, the one who watched from the edges. But Ruby was not alone. Mulan followed.

They moved together, not dramatically, not performatively. There was ease in their rhythm, a burden shared. They exchanged a glance, a tired smile. Mulan took her cup, her hand lingering on Ruby’s wrist. It wasn’t a claim or a question. Just a soft, familiar touch. Ruby returned the pressure. It was enough.

The connection was clear. Quiet, and certain. The longing that bled across the journal’s pages, the ache that refused to settle, did not belong to this kind of love. Ruby was spoken for.

Regina stayed still. She did not exhale, that would have implied release. Instead, she took a long, steadying breath. The kind meant to hold something in, not let it go.

She looked at the journal. It had not moved. But something in her had.

She did not reach for it. Not yet. Her hand hovered, then withdrew. She was not ready. The ache had not settled. The dread had not passed. But she had come here for this.

She waited. Not for courage, but for stillness. This was the threshold, not the moment of knowing, but the moment before.

She reached again, slower this time. Her fingers touched the cover. She let them rest there. She hesitated. Not because she doubted the author, but because she feared what came next.

She opened the journal. Not to read. To witness. To mark what had been written. To decide what would be carried forward.

And then, finally. She began to read.

December 1st

Five days since the drive.

Since the rain.

Since the tearing.

The ritual didn’t save me.

But I can’t let it go.

It’s the only thread, that still knows my hands.

Silence didn’t come.

Only echo.

Quieter.

Like a breath folded into paper.

I’m not running.

I’m not reaching.

I’m just letting go.

She chose him.

I’ve mapped the shape of it.

A world that doesn’t need me, still holds.

But I can’t leave the witness completely cold.

Not for him.

For you

The one I watched, without asking to be seen.

If you’re reading this

If the journal found its way, to the one who saw the quiet watching,

The devotion I never meant to show.

Then you’re the one

You’re the only one.

The only one who might understand?

What it cost to stay silent.

I’m leaving the journal in Henry’s fort.

Safe enough to be kept.

Visible enough to be found.

A gesture.

Of surrender.

Of hope.

Of maybe.

The last lines were small, almost illegible, like breath on glass. Regina blinked, not because she struggled to read them, but because she recognised the rhythm, the way the ink trembled, the way the words held more ache than clarity. They had not been written to explain. They had been written to survive. She did not reach for the letters or trace their shape. She simply looked, and something in her stilled. Not because she softened, but because she knew what it cost to write like that.

Please.

If you found this

I need to know you’re okay.

I need to know.

I didn’t leave you with something too heavy to carry.

Not for me.

For you.

If you understand the silence… meet me.

The Christmas Tree.

Christmas Eve.

8:00 PM.

I am unmaking myself.

But I will wait.

Just in case, the time decides to change.

Regina did not move for a long time after reading the final lines. The journal remained open on the table at Granny’s, its last page exposed to the soft light and the quiet clinking of dishes as the diner emptied.

Her breath, held for three weeks through the author’s silence, finally shuddered out. It was not a sob. It was the sound of something internal giving way, not collapse, but the first crack in the wall she had built to contain the ache.

She looked again at the date: December 1st. The author had not waited until Christmas Eve to write. The resignation had come early, and the weeks that followed had been a slow, silent unravelling.

Five days since the drive. Since the rain. Since the tearing.

Regina’s hand trembled slightly as she reached into her coat pocket. She did not touch the page. She touched the fragment, still damp, still folded. Surrender and sadness. Two halves of the same truth. The missing page was the wound. The final entry was the scar.

She traced the last lines with her eyes.

Please. If you found this... I need to know you’re okay. Not for me. For you.

It was the first time the author had stepped outside their own pain. Not to beg. Not to be seen. But to protect. The concern was not performative. It was precise. Devastating. A witness who feared their own collapse might harm the one they had watched in silence.

A single tear tracked through the grime on Regina’s cheek. It was not grief. It was recognition. The meticulous reader had found the line that transcended the text. The author had cared more for Regina’s peace than her own survival.

Regina flipped through the remaining pages. The ones that should have followed December 1st. Her heart tightened with the faint hope of another instruction, another clue, another word of caution.

The pages were blank.

The author had been true to their word.

There was nothing more to say.

The waiting had begun.

Regina closed the journal. The sound of the cover snapping shut did not echo through the diner. It echoed through her. Not dramatic. Just true.

*

The clock was set. The waiting was the punishment.

Regina placed the journal in her safe. It sat there like a sealed wound, silent, contained, but pressing against her ribs with every breath. For seven agonising days leading up to Christmas Eve, the only comfort was the brutal clarity of what had been written. The silence that followed the final entry wasn’t absence. It was a vacuum. Shared. It pulled at her composure like a tide she wasn’t meant to resist.

The day after reading the final entry, she walked into Town Hall and saw Robin. His hope was a sound she no longer recognised. She said, “No, Robin. That time is over.” The refusal didn’t tremble. It landed.

Later, she saw Emma.

Their exchange was professional.

Emma’s silence was exact. Her answers were clipped, her gaze fixed on the manila folder. The spark that once flared between them, sharp and antagonistic, was gone.

Regina watched. The detachment was too clean. Too complete.

It resembled surrender, but it felt rehearsed.

She did not trust it.

Emma’s posture held no tremor. Her voice did not waver. It was the precision of someone who had practiced indifference until it fit like armour.

Regina did not know what it meant.

But she felt it.

Not grief. Not anger.

Suspicion.

The Evil Queen didn’t trust clean endings.

This wasn’t peace. It was performance.

Emma looked like a machine stripped of its heart, moving through the motions with surgical grace.

Regina saw it for what it was, not emptiness, but containment. A body holding back an ocean. A final resolve: I can exist without feeling.

It hit her like a physical blow.

The journal’s final plea, not for me. For you. Was the only living thing left. A pulse beneath the ice.

The days that followed did not pass. They pressed.

Each hour was a stone in her pocket.

Every night, Regina opened the journal. She ran her fingers across the blank pages, as if touch could coax more truth from them.

The pages remained blank.

She focused only on what had survived: the surrender of the tearing, and the small, almost illegible plea.

Not for me. For you.

She read it again. And again.

Not to understand.

To hold.

The rereading didn’t soothe her. It sharpened her.

The author was gone.

Only Christmas Eve remained.

Regina lived with the number fixed in her mind: Christmas Eve. Eight o’clock. The Christmas Tree.

It wasn’t just a time.

It was a threshold.

The time had to change.

She just had to wait for it.

*

Regina dressed with care. Not for presentation, but for containment. The coat was familiar. The boots were worn. She chose the grey scarf without hesitation. It was soft and frayed slightly at the edges. She didn’t know where it came from, only that it was hers now. She wore it often. Always, really. It was her favourite.

It settled against her throat like memory. Not a memory she could name, but close enough to carry.

The walk to the Christmas Tree was slow. Not hesitant but measured. The cold did not bite. It settled. Her breath was visible, but steady. Each step was deliberate, paced to match the rhythm of her thoughts.

She arrived early. Seven forty-five. The square was quiet. The lights were soft. The tree stood tall, adorned but not garish. It did not sparkle. It held.

She did not sit. She did not lean. She stood with her hands in her pockets; her gaze fixed on the tree. The journal remained in the safe. She had not brought it. She did not need to. The final lines were memorised. The ache was internal.

Eight o’clock came without ceremony. No bell. No shift in the air. Just time, arriving as promised.

She waited. Not for anyone. Not for closure. For confirmation. For the possibility that silence had not been the end.

She watched the path, the benches, the edges of the square.

No one came.

She did not flinch. She did not cry. She did not collapse.

She stayed. The cold settled deeper, an external reflection of the quiet ache inside. The memory held close by the grey scarf felt heavy, but she kept her gaze fixed on the tree.

Then, a flicker.

Not of a light, but of something out of place. Tucked neatly at the very base of the colossal Christmas tree, almost swallowed by the low-hanging boughs, was a dark shape. It was small, unassuming, and certainly hadn't been there when she arrived.

Regina’s measured composure broke, just for a beat. Her breath hitched, clouding before her. She took a step, then another, the slow, deliberate pace of her walk replaced by a sudden, urgent stride.

It was a journal. Not the one she’d left at home, but one just like it: a simple, leather-bound volume, the cover worn smooth with use. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked it up. It was cold from the night air, its weight familiar in her palm. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of pine and something else, cinnamon? old paper? rose from it.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t need to confirm the possibility; the sight of the object was confirmation enough. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp, an excitement she hadn't allowed herself to feel all week surging through her veins. This had to be it. It had to be…

She hurried back to the square, positioning herself under the soft, holding light of the tree. The grey scarf felt suddenly too warm. She didn't bother to wipe the moisture from the cover or smooth the pages. She just opened it, her eyes scanning the familiar script that she desperately hoped belonged to the person she was waiting for.

She opened the journal.

Just one entry at a time

What harm can it do.

December 24th

Twenty-four days since my last entry.

Since the hush.

Since the maybe.

The ritual didn’t end.

It softened.

It’s the only rhythm, that still matches my breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t flinch.

You just arrived.

Like dusk.

Like weather.

Like something the square was always waiting for.

The tree didn’t shimmer.

It steadied.

The benches leaned.

The cold folded back.

You stood still.

Not braced.

Not reaching.

Just present.

Your coat held memory.

Your boots, softened.

My scarf. I remember now. Grey, familiar. Settled like a vow you never meant to make.

But I did.

I left it quiet on your chair.

Not for warmth.

For tether.

For breath you wouldn’t name, but always carried.

You didn’t search.

You listened.

For something you never admitted you still believed in.

You carry silence like architecture.

Not fragile.

Not performative.

Just built.

You were never the reason I surrendered.

You were the reason.

I stayed as long as I could.

This isn’t a return.

It’s a recognition.

You were never the question.

You were always the answer.

A gesture.

Of presence.

Of memory.

Of now.

I keep telling myself I’ll stop writing these.

But I won’t

Because every time I see you, Regina. I fall a little harder.

Look up from the page, put the journal down, and turn around.

Regina read the final line again. It was small, almost hesitant, tucked into the margin like a breath folded into paper. She didn’t rush. She didn’t brace. She let it settle.

The journal felt warm in her hands, as if it had been waiting. She closed it slowly, not with ceremony, but with the kind of care reserved for things that have already changed you. Her fingers loosened. Her shoulders dropped. She turned.

Emma was there.

Not waiting. Not reaching. Just standing. Her posture quiet, her presence steady. The scarf, grey, familiar sat between them like a vow neither of them had spoken aloud. The cold didn’t bite. It held. The square didn’t echo. It listened.

Regina stepped forward. Not cautiously. Not defiantly. Just with the kind of certainty that comes when the ache has already been named. She stopped close. Close enough to feel Emma’s breath in the air. Close enough to be felt.

She looked at her. Fully. Not for answers. Not for apology. Just to see.

Emma met her gaze. Her eyes didn’t flinch. Her shoulders didn’t rise. And then, slowly, she smiled.

That lopsided grin, the one Regina remembered from late nights and quiet refusals, from half-spoken truths and the ache of almost landed like a soft interruption.

“Hi” Emma said.

It wasn’t a greeting.

It was a homecoming.

It was the sound of surrender made gentle.

Regina didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She stepped forward again, just enough to close the space between them. Her hand rose, not to claim, but to rest upon Emma’s chest. And when their lips met, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was the kind of kiss that knows the cost of silence.

The weight of watching settled between them. The shape of choosing held. It was soft. It was steady. It was enough.

Emma didn’t pull away. Regina didn’t press forward. They stayed.

And in that staying, something shifted. Not loudly. Not visibly. Just enough.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of the things they hadn’t said. Full of the things they had carried. Full of the choice Emma had made, not to leave, but to surrender.

Regina understood now. Not the reasons. Not the timing. Just the truth.

Emma had chosen herself. And in doing so, she had made space for this. A place where there could be an us. For the kind of love that doesn’t demand, but remains.

Regina didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She didn’t forgive.

She stayed.

And Emma stayed with her.