A/N: So I couldn't resist anymore. I had to fic this fandom. I'm in a state of perpetual grief over Graham, and the Graham/Emma ship, and when they brought up that well a few episodes ago…I couldn't get this idea out of my head. I love Emma as a character, and I shipped these two so much. The Stranger (I call him Not Graham) isn't doing it for me, but oh well. I also love love love the family dynamic of The Charmings (esp. Mary Margaret and Emma), so I'll throw some of that in as well.

This makes only a few slight changes to canon, starting with What Happened to Frederick and when the book is found. I'm planning on keeping it compatible with canon thus far…especially with the heart in the box from tonight's episode. If Henry doesn't at least make the Graham connection, I'll be severely disappointed (not that it could be his heart, as it's dust now but…you know, there is the fact that Regina keeps hearts in boxes).

What Once Was Lost

"So this legend. It says that if you drink the water from the well…something lost will be returned to you."

The words tug at something in Emma's chest, but she ignores it, muffling the unnamed sensation with her suspicion of the stranger standing in front of her, and why he can so easily rattle off some obscure legend about a town he's never been to before.

Moments later, though, he directs her to a plaque by the well, and Emma feels a bit foolish for interrogating him, her eyes scanning the words spelling out the story for all to see.

For centuries, local legend has claimed that mystical waters run beneath this great land. It is said that these waters possess the power to return that which is lost it its rightful place. If you have lose something precious to you, drink from this well and bear witness to this miracle as what is missing shall be returned.

The tugging starts again, painful and insistent, somewhere around the phrase 'lose something precious'.

There are many, many things Emma Swan has lost in her life. But what comes to mind is the most recent loss, the most searing wound, still not quite a scar.

Emma folds her arms and steps away from the plaque. She can feel August watching her, but she avoids his light blue eyes, too consumed by the sudden, blinding memory of another pair of eyes, the soft, bruised blue boring into hers, seconds before the life drained out of them.

To her utmost irritation, tears thicken in Emma's throat, and she swallows against them as though she can swallow her own grief. By necessity, she has become an expert at fighting emotion.

So she lets August ramble on about the magic of water. She drinks from the supposedly mythical well, and tries not to envy her son's belief in magic, his firm conviction that everything evil and unfair in the world is the fault of a curse…a curse that can be broken.

~OUAT~

When Emma was eight, she was sent to live with her eleventh foster family. They were nicer than most, though the house was a little crowded: four other foster kids, plus two of the couples' real children.

There was a tree in the yard, a huge one, the kind with branches starting at the base of the trunk, and huge leaves, so the whole thing looked like an enclosure.

They weren't supposed to climb it, because it was so old, and some branches were dead. But Emma always did it, anyway; that tree was her spot, the only place she could go when the house felt too suffocating. She would climb higher and higher every day, savoring the quiet, the solitude. But she was always careful, always holding at least two branches at once, because she could never guess when the one she was standing on would drop out beneath her.

These days, grief is like that. Most of the time, she can climb just fine. She can be the sheriff. She can work toward being the hero Henry needed. She can be a friend for Mary Margaret. Most days, Emma feels steady; on solid ground.

Then, without warning, there are cracks beneath her feet, and without warning the world falls out from under her and she's falling right back into it, into the sadness that threatens to engulf her, toward the hard, painful crash landing that leaves her shaky and aching for days after.

Today, after the unmagical water at the painfully ordinary well, feels like the worst fall, the time she shattered all the bones in her shoulder, the injury that got her moved to different, meaner foster parents without a yard or a tree, the ones who claimed they were more willing to deal with a girl in a sling.

Emma retreats into her room the moment she gets home, closing and locking the door even though Mary Margaret doesn't seem to be home.

Opening the door to her closet, Emma slides the jacket from its hook on the door; his jacket. Shrugging off her own, Emma wraps herself in the soft, familiar leather and closes her eyes, breathing in Graham's scent, that curious combination of snow and pine and a hint of aftershave.

She does not pull the jacket out often, for fear of losing that scent. It has become a desperate measure for desperate times.

Today definitely qualifies. Emma tightens the jacket around her and curls on her bed. Tears stab at her eyes like tiny, hot daggers, and in spite of her solitude, Emma squeezes her eyes shut against them, swallowing against the sobs building in her throat.

It has been nearly a month since she has cried over him, since the jacket was liberated from its spot in the closet. Emma mentally runs through her usual scolding…barely knew him and only a kiss, sometimes with a nothing I could have done thrown in. None of it does her any good.

A few hours later, Emma has pulled herself together. The jacket is back in the closet. When Mary Margaret comes home, curled on her own bed and crying without trying to disguise it, Emma is able to put aside all concern for herself. She is standing on solid ground again, steady and certain.

Until, of course, the next time the branch below her cracks.

~OUAT~

A few days after her trip to the wishing well, Emma gets another few hours with Henry. This visit is unsanctioned by Regina, unlike their half hour ice cream trip a few weeks ago.

But Henry bursts into the sheriff's office, gleeful because Regina is in a council meeting, which he assures Emma always lasts forever.

"Besides," he tells her with a grin. "We've got a lot of catching up to do on Operation Cobra. Right?"

Henry's smile is infectious, and Emma can't help but mirror it with one of her own. She's so happy to see him, and the adoration shining in his eyes makes her heart feel like it's too big for her chest.

"That's right, kid," she tells him, standing up from her desk. "Actually, there's a place I've been wanting to show you."

~OUAT~

"…and bear witness to this miracle as what is missing shall be returned." Henry straightens up as he finishes reading the plaque. He beams at her. "Awesome."

Emma smiles at him fondly. Once she'd forcibly dismissed her own reaction to the wishing well's legend as completely uncalled for, she'd realized that it would be the kind of story her son would love.

"So what do you think? Anything about this in your book?"

The boy screws up his face in concentration. "I don't remember anything about the well, exactly, but there's definitely a magic lake." He frowns, frustration slipping into his tone. "If I hadn't lost the book, I could remember exactly…" Suddenly, Henry's face lights up. "The book! This is how we get it back. The water returns things you've lost." He peers eagerly into the well. "Did you bring cups?"

"Whoa, slow down." Emma touches him on the shoulder. "I don't think it works anymore, kid. I drank the water a few days ago, and believe me, I haven't found anything that's lost." There's another stab to her gut, as Graham's face flashes in her mind. Emma grits her teeth, angry at herself.

Henry looks disappointed. He stares down the well again, a look of concentration on his face, like he's searching for answers in the water's reflection.

After a moment, Henry twists around to look at her, bright eyed and flushed. "I got it! It's a wishing well. Maybe…we have to wish first."

"What?"

"Do you have any change?"

It takes Emma a beat to realize what he's asking. Obliging, she rummages around in her wallet and produces a handful of coins.

Henry plucks two pennies from her palm. "That's enough." As soon as Emma replaces the other coins in her pocket, Henry thrusts one of the pennies back at her. "Here, you take one."

She does, absently worrying to tiny copper circle between her fingers. "You know, the plaque doesn't saying anything wishing with pennies."

Henry shrugs, unbothered. "Yeah, but…it's a wishing well. This is just…what you do." He lifts his gaze to look at her. "Right?"

Emma shrugs, turning to face the well beside her son. "No harm in trying."

Henry bends his thumb and balances the penny against his knuckle, closing his eyes. Emma knows he's wishing for the return of his book. She slides her gaze to her own penny, her throat narrowing.

She doesn't want to indulge this idea, even for a moment. She doesn't want to wish.

But the truth is, she never stops wishing. Every day, every second since he died in her arms, some part of Emma has been wishing that Graham would come back.

Together, she and her son flip their coins into the air, watch them rise and then fall, descending into the water, carrying their wishes, their memories of what's been lost.

"Now we drink it."

Henry helps her pull up the bucket, and they make cups with their hands, just enough to sip the water.

"Well," Emma says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Should we go search for the book?"

"I don't think we have to," Henry replies. "If the wish works…it should just come back to us."

"If the wish works…" Emma repeats, her voice soft. She squeezes her son's shoulder. "Even if it doesn't work…I'm still looking, kid. I haven't given up." She pauses, then clarifies, for herself more than him, "On the book, I mean."

~OUAT~

"Emma! Emma!"

It's the day after their excursion to the wishing well, and Emma has barely had time to register Henry's presence in the office when he's in front of her desk, thrusting something at her. "It worked! I found it!"

"What the…" Emma stares down at the thick book being thrust into her hands. She traces her fingers over the title: ONCE UPON A TIME. "Where was it?"

"Out in the street, under your car!" Henry's words are tripping over each other. "I just walked by, and there was a box in the street, right up against the tire, so I opened it, and the book was inside."

Emma arches an eyebrow, giving him a look. "Really, kid? It was just lying in the street."

Henry holds her gaze, eyes flashing with a challenge. "Use your superpower. See if I'm lying." When Emma doesn't answer, he adds, "The box is still out there. I can show you."

"No, it's…I believe you." Emma keeps staring down at the book, like it's a figment of her imagination.

"See? The wishing well worked. Something lost was returned to me." Henry pauses, watching his mother stare down at the book like she can't quite believe it's real. "What did you wish to get back? I bet it works for you, too."

To avoid answering, Emma flips the book open to a random page, checking its authenticity.

She finds herself staring down at a drawing of the huntsmen, having his heart ripped out by an evil queen.

There's a catch in her voice when she answers, "No, kid. What I lost…it's not something I can get back."

Henry glances from Emma to the page and back again. Tentatively, he ventures, "Are you…talking about Sheriff Graham?"

The book slams shut, and Emma whips around to look at him, eyes blazing. "Of course not."

"Because…we don't know how the curse affects someone who dies. No one was ever supposed to, since time was frozen," Henry explained earnestly. "When we break the curse…he could be back in the fairy tale world. He could be there now, even!"

"Henry," Emma's voice is sharp, the words like shards of glass in her throat. "Graham is dead. He isn't coming back, and he's not…waiting in some fairy tale land. You shouldn't say things like that, it's mean."

The boy blinks up at her, wide eyed and pale. Already guilt twists Emma's stomach, but she can't look at him as she hands the book back. "You should go; your mom will be worried."

"Sorry," Henry mumbles shakily as he turns to go.

Hot shame burns in her gut, and Emma manages to reply, "It's okay, kid. I'll see you soon," with just enough softness that Henry knows she isn't really angry at him.

She's only angry at her inability to believe what he's saying could possibly be true.