A/N: Hey guys! Thanks to everyone who put this story on their favorites and alerts, and especially thanks to those who reviewed. I love hearing what you guys think, so keep it coming. Chapter title and lyrics come from "Signs" by Bloc Party.

Chapter Two

I see signs now all the time that you're not dead, you're sleeping
I believe in anything that brings you back home to me

Wolves make three distinct types of howls.

There's the locating howl, which gives the whereabouts of any pack in the area. It's how the wolves keep track of each other when the pack separates temporarily, and also how they keep tabs on rival packs. Then there's the defensive howl, which is a little deeper. It's a wolf's version of keep out; their method of protecting their territory and the pack that occupies it. The final type is the rallying howl, long and mournful, used when a pack member is lost.

The huntsman knows these howls; they had been his first language. Now, as he moves stealthily through the forest, the familiar, distant timbre of a locating howl reaches his ears, echoing through the trees. He pauses; it's the howl of his pack, the one he often joins, as distinctive to his ears as a human voice.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, holding it; then, he sends his own howl back, a near perfect replica, letting the wolves know that he's still in the forest.

He can't help smiling at little as he lifts an arrow from his quiver. It's taken some time for his skills to return. Twenty eight years without hunting, without howling…his instincts had gone rusty.

Twenty eight years. Only now can he feel every second of those years, realize how long he'd spent trapped in a monotonous, unchanging haze. Ironic that the cruelty of the curse was only evident when it was finally broken.

Broken for him, anyway. The huntsman has not seen another human being in all the months since he returned to the enchanted forest. His life here had always been one of solitude, but never to this extent.

Still, it is a blessing, in a way. His last few years here, before the curse, had been spent trapped under the thumb of the Evil Queen, confined to the castle, indulging her every whim.

It is a relief to be out in his woods again, finally free.

Except.

His time under the curse, all twenty eight years of it, isstill vivid. And it is proving hard to shake.

He's worried about the others, and his inability to bridge the two worlds frequently frustrates him, leaves him cursing his own uselessness..

For the most part, though, those twenty eight years in Storybrooke had left little to mourn.

Except…those last few months. Those months, Graham misses.

Graham. The name repeats in his mind, always in her voice, and it makes his chest ache with longing.

He'd never been given a name in this world; the wolves have no use for them. Now, though, the huntsman can't shake it.

When he's alone in the forest, h imagines her, saying his name, all the different ways she ever said. Exasperation that tried to mask her amusement when he teased her. Soft around the edges and laced with comfort, that last day, trying to show him his own heartbeat.

And at night, when he's struggling to sleep, he hears her voice, terrified and desperate, her voice breaking around his name, the last thing he heard before he slipped into some sort of void.

Emma.

He whispers her name quietly and reverently, like a prayer, though there's no one around to hear him.

He runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. The huntsman used to be happy in the forest, the quiet and the stillness, broken only by the animals. He never needed anything more.

Now, though, constant longing courses through his veins, breathes down his neck, scratches at his throat. There is a hollow ache in his gut, and time hasn't begun to heal it.

Never in his life has the huntsman – Graham – felt such a need for another human being.

And maybe that is the real curse.

Frustrated, Graham tilts back his head, rounds his mouth into an O, and lets loose a rallying howl. It holds everything he does not have the words for, a low, intense distillation of grief, all poured into one empty, swelling minor note of yearning.

~OUAT~

Sometimes Emma wakes up in the middle of the night from nightmares she can't remember, with his name scratching at her throat, and the low, mournful howl of a wolf throbbing in her ears.

It happens tonight; it's after three a.m. when she snaps awake, sweaty and shaking, her heart pounding with a vaguely, irrational sense of panic.

It takes a few moments for her to breathe normally again, and then Emma stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light to splash cold water on her face. The light is disorienting in its brightness, and it takes a moment before Emma can stare at herself in the mirror. Her reflection is wild-eyed and frightened looking.

A few minutes later, when she's curled back under cool sheets, sleep eludes her. Thankfully, she manages to banish the wolf's howl from her mind, but tonight, there is enough going on in reality to occupy her thoughts.

~OUAT~

Mary Margaret Blanchard eats lunch alone now.

She used to sit in the cafeteria, at a table full of other teachers, but over the last few weeks, it had been made clear she was no longer welcome. Frosty silences over and cutting glances over stale sandwiches had turned the lunches into something she dreaded.

So now, Mary Margaret stayed in her classroom, eating by herself. It was a lonely arrangement, an eight hour school day without an ounce of adult conversation, but it beat the alternative.

As she unwraps the bag lunch she'd brought, Mary Margaret finds herself thinking that it could be worse. If this had happened less than a year ago, the teacher might be going days, weeks even, without a friendly word from an adult, rather than mere hours.

She has never been more grateful for Emma's presence.

She smiles a little, thinking about her roommate and unlikely best friend. Emma is tough and guarded, never the most affectionate friend in either words or gestures, but Mary Margaret can't imagine anyone being more steadfastly loyal.

Mary Margaret is still thinking about Emma when Henry sticks his head in her classroom door, as though the strength of the boy's adoration for his mother is such that he can sense her presence even in someone's thoughts. "Miss Blanchard?"

"Come on in, Henry," Mary Margaret tells him with a warm smile. The boy immediately bounds forward, pulling a chair up across from her and swinging his lunchbox onto her desk.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

His face is utterly serious, and for a wild moment Mary Margaret panics with the thought that he's heard something about the David and Katherine business. "Um, of course."

"It's about Emma," he tells her, and Mary Margaret immediately relaxes. "And also Sheriff Graham."

At that, Mary Margaret goes tense again, not sure where Henry could be going with that. "Alright…"

Henry leans forward, expression earnest. "Well, Graham told me that he kissed Emma. And he said when he did, he started to get memories back." Unsurprisingly, Henry plops his book down on the desk, flicking through the pages until he finds the right one. "He was remembering that he was the huntsman."

"Henry," Mary Margaret begins gently. "Honey, Graham was sick that day. He was weak, and feverish, and he didn't know what he was saying."

"But he was right," Henry insists. "He remembered all of it, without ever seeing my book." He punctuates the sentence by slamming the book shut, shaking his head impatiently. "But that's not the point is…the point is, when the queen killed him-"

"Henry," Mary Margaret reminds him patiently. "What happened to Graham was horrible, and it was tragic, but no one killed him. He had a heart attack."

"Exactly! That's what it looked like. Because before the curse, the queen took the huntsman's heart. And Graham was remembering that, so she used it to kill him." Henry shoots her an almost pitying look, like his teacher is actually a small child who's being slow on the uptake. "But the point is…the curse was starting to lift from Graham. And she killed him using magic from before the curse. And she was never supposed to have to kill anyone, because time was frozen." Henry draws a breath, clearly leading to his big finish. "So we don't know what happened to him when he died. He could be back when we break the curse. Or he maybe even isn't really dead now."

Mary Margaret is quiet for a long moment, her throat tight. It's a tightrope walk, really, keeping Henry's imagination and hope alive while still keeping him aware of some sense of reality.

Finally, Mary Margaret leans forward and meets the boys eyes, her gaze wide and serious. "You're right, Henry. There's a lot we don't know about what happens after death. But can you do me a favor?" He nods, waiting. "Don't talk about this to Emma. Not just yet, alright?"

She expects him to question this, but Henry just nods. "I know. That's why I'm telling you." Henry goes quiet for a moment, his eyes downcast. "Emma got upset when I first tried. She said it was mean."

"Oh, honey, she wasn't really mad at you. Emma…she doesn't like to talk about him. She misses him, and I think right now…talking just makes it harder."

"I know," Henry acknowledges. He pauses, then ventures, "Did she love Sheriff Graham?"

Mary Margaret hesitates for a few seconds before answering honestly, "I don't know. But I think she could have."

Henry leans back in his chair, his face set, a storm in his eyes. In that moment, he looks much, much older than ten. Finally, he straightens a little and declares firmly, "Alright. I won't say anything to Emma. I don't want to make her more sad."

Mary Margaret looks relieved, and she pats him on the arm. Privately, though, Henry thinks it's time Operation Cobra had a side project, one only he knows about.

The magic well is probably already at work at finding Graham. But there's no reason Henry can't try to investigate on his own.