A/N: I should totally not be writing a new story, not with two more unfinished ones lying around, but this idea has kind of been haunting me and I wanted to put it in words. I hope you like it and maybe review if you did.
A shrill noise pierces the room. It penetrates the silence that had settled and brought calm. The sheets move with Emma's rustling. She turns and turns, wishing the sound to stop, every shift fruitless. When the realization that her pillow doesn't cut it as a silencer hits Emma, she grunts. Opening her eyes, Emma sees the pale beam of light her phone emits. Why would someone call her in the middle of the fucking night? Softly shaking to regain its use, her hand reaches out and takes her mobile off the night stand.
"Hello?" she says, the sleep being distinguished by her voice. And the irritation too.
She hadn't looked at the caller ID, her eyes instantly shutting themselves again as she felt the phone in her hand, so she has no idea who decided to wake her up. Emma rubs her eyes. It's an averse attempt to wake up. She doesn't want to get rid of the sleep, she wants to drown in it. To exploit the hours of rest she has to the fullest. However, if someone is calling her right now and she's picking up, devoting a few minutes to them, attentiveness is needed.
"Emma?" a male voice asks.
There is so much hesitance on the other side of the line that the man starts with uttering the first syllable and halts. He quickly starts over and says the name in its totality.
Emma doesn't think much of it, the sleep still clouding and controlling every thought.
"Uhuh, that's me." she simply replies.
No sounds comes out of her phone. Emma thinks that her caller must've fallen silent again. She is about to ask if he's still there when he speaks another.
"Sorry. I must've dialed the wrong number."
A yawn sneaks up on Emma. Her hand, half hidden in the sleeve of her red pajama top, comes to cover her mouth. The yawn causes Emma's eyes to dampen of tiredness. It's a good thing the conversation doesn't need to go on any further because Emma is convinced she would've fallen asleep in the midst of it.
"No problem." Emma says, her words partially enveloped in the sound her open mouth makes.
One press on the red button. She puts the phone back on the stand. Her body sinks back in the sheets and her hands rearrange her locks, maybe that way her hair won't be a mess that's impossible to untangle the morning. It's 3.54 am which means she has three more hours. Three more hours of sleep. After those she needs to wake up and get them both ready. Those three hours will be very much appreciated. She lies her head down and nuzzles into her pillow.
…
"See you this evening, kid." Emma smiles and ruffles Henry's brown locks.
Her child is already jumping excitedly at being reunited with his friends after the weekend. He nearly bombarded Emma at breakfast with stories of Avery's new dog and how he was planning on bringing pictures to school. Then came the big eyes, full of innocence while he asked permission to go to Avery's place and meet said pup. Emma could do nothing but accept with a smile and Henry attacked her with a hug instead.
Every time she thinks of Henry and the close friends he has, Emma senses the spread of a happy feeling. It starts around her heart, the swirl filling the beating organ. After a while the warmth surges upwards, intruding her thoughts. Conducting them to days long gone.
Good friends. They'll be defining for the rest of Henry's life.
After waiting until Henry has entered the school through its bright, blue doors, Emma starts walking back to the apartment. It's not far by foot and definitely faster than any car in the city traffic. Emma bares her wrist and her watch shows the time. She still has an hour before she is expected at the office.
Dark clouds are threatening the New York streets, so Emma fastens her pace to make it home before it starts pouring. The heels of her black shoes click hurriedly on the grey concrete. A first drop lands on her forehead and trickles its way down her nose. Another one falls. When the beads metamorphose into a real deluge of water, the gate of her apartment appears. She opens the door and runs upstairs. Her keys are thrown on the table and her coat is hung on the rack. The light the room usually wallows in, is hidden behind the stormy clouds, thus giving Emma no choice but to illuminate the light bulbs scattered across the room. She walks past the buckets where Henry's plants stand and takes a seat on one of the stools.
A yawn escapes. She really didn't get enough sleep last night. Wanting to finish that season of The Tudors was a bad idea, how ever gorgeous Henry Cavill might be. The sleep deprivation is just the toll she has to pay for it.
Emma rummages through the to-do list in her head. Mary Margaret is one of the bullet points. The date for her dinner party is still unconfirmed by Emma and it is getting closer. Her fingers quickly unlock her phone and tap the call symbol. If she recalls correctly, Mary Margaret called her recently, so she should be in in this list somewhere. Reading the names, Emma scrolls down. Her thumb stops and Emma holds the phone closer to her face and squints her eyes. It's the number that called her yesterday -or should she say today. There's something strange about it.
44. What kind of number starts with 44? To her knowing, US numbers start with three digits, not just two. It can't be a US one. Emma criticizes herself under her breath. It doesn't really matter. The man said he had dialed the wrong number, that ends it and she should be notifying Mary Margaret if they have any plans or not. But the curiosity lingers.
After a thorough search Emma has discovered the 44 indicates a call from Great-Britain and her nodding head agrees with the conclusion. She had certainly recognized that there was something off with the way he spoke, the typical lilt when he said her name and when he said he called the wrong person, it just took until now to place it.
Half asleep Emma can be quite ignorant sometimes.
The mystery is solved. Now she knows where the strange call had come from. Not that it matters much. Emma does find a reason to grant him some forgiveness for the middle of the night part. Difference in time zones.
Her eyes go to her wrist. There are 40 minutes left before work starts. Great, that leaves time to just relax. Music. That's what she needs right now. Her finger trails along the row of CDs until she spots one she craves for.
The track starts playing and puts a smile on Emma's face. It's been ages since she listened to this, but this song, its melody and lyrics are so nostalgic. As the chords are being plucked on the recording, they simultaneously get struck with Emma.
It starts with a small hum but by the time the singing starts, Emma's voice sings along.
"Cuz it's a bittersweet…" Her hands mimic the drum. "...symphony this life."
Nodding her head to the tune, she floats to the fridge to get some orange juice. The glass fills with the liquid and Emma puts the cap back on the bottle when it's right about half full. She takes a sip and licks a drop off her lips.
Her thoughts drift back to the call this night. Apparently her brain has an abiding need to keep thinking of it. Why, Emma doesn't know. It wasn't an outstandingly strange call.
He called, she picked up, he asked if she was Emma, she said yes,-
Hold on. He asked if she was Emma.
If he rang the wrong number, how would he know that?
Emma closes her eyes to recall the conversation. To relive it.
Not what he said. No, she remembered that.
But the sound of his voice.
The high and lows in his speech.
The intonation.
The glass slips through her fingers and crashes on the ground. Shards split into even smaller fragments and blast over Emma's floor. Enlarging its territory, the juice colors the previously clear pieces orange.
Emma is rendered immobile for a second, her eyes watching the scene taking place on the ground, the CD continuing to play in the background.
She takes a deep breath through her nostrils and turns around. Behind her is the closet where Emma stores their cleaning supplies (or should she say her cleaning supplies because Henry's room is proof that he isn't very fond of cleaning). She flicks on the light and searches for the duster. Walking back to the disorder, Emma realizes that a bigger mess will only be made if she cleans the glass with the broom. Bending her knees, she squats over the scene and tentatively picks some of the bigger pieces with her fingers. They get discarded in the trash. Emma walks back for a second go when she notices a red droplet crossing, creating a pathway over her hand. She should better go rinse them. As the clear water runs and dominates the thin, red stream, Emma feels a sting. Not one the wound is giving her, but one the tears in her eyes are making her feel.
There is no doubt about who called her. It might have taken her a while to catch but she is absolutely certain of it. Why now? All of these years have passed. And with one phone call it is like they have not. Emma shuts her eyelids and a tear falls as she does.
She misses him, of course she misses him, but for a long time his absence has been a faint throbbing. A crack tucked away in a corner of her heart. It had been unbearable once, but the years had faded that away. Moments of happiness with Henry, with Mary Margaret and David had forced it to the background, new memories had coated the open wound. Emma had grown used to the pain, her body unresponsive to it. But it's still there. The small prick.
It has just been so long.