Once Upon a Time

Vera’s bones felt heavy as she put on her apron. Her muscles were taut with apprehension - a feeling that never quite went away. Not anymore. As she smiled at her coworkers, she imagined one of those theater masks was over her face. A stretched smile hiding the person underneath.

And who was the person underneath the mask? Vera wasn’t sure she knew anymore. The 17 year old girl who refused to hurt anyone? Did she exist anymore? 

Vera sighed, then caught herself. She rearranged her face back into its smile, and took her place at the register as the café opened and Parisians trickled in for their morning coffee.

Once Vera had dreamed of being a performer - an actress or a stuntwoman, she could never decide. This was so far from how she had imagined her acting career might go. 

She smiled and nodded and trilled out French like a native speaker, her mannerisms and expression and tone of voice were lively and warm. Even though she felt dead inside. 

Vera finished taking a customer’s order, and set the cup in line. She looked up, ready to take the next person’s order - 

And damn near had a heart attack. 

A young woman with warm brown eyes and long, wavy blonde hair was staring back at her.

Emma.

Vera’s mind launched back to another time - another life. A life of joy and laughter and trivial problems which seemed so terribly important. A life where her best friend went with her to every party, every social gathering, every school dance, and sat next to her at lunch every day. A life where they squealed together when one of them was asked out by a cute boy, or when one of them got a great grade on a test. A life where any troubles were shared, where neither of them ever cried alone. 

Vera had been trained to keep her expression separate from her thoughts and feelings. Thank goodness for that.

“What can I get for you?” she asked, using French as if she had no idea where this woman was from.

“I - um - just a coffee, please. Heavy cream, no sugar,” Emma answered, in English.

Vera recited the order to herself before it was even spoken. How many times had she heard it?

“And a name for the order?” Vera asked with a heavy and entirely artificial French accent. As if English wasn’t her native language. 

“Emma.”

As if Vera needed any confirmation, there it was. 

“Alright, Emma, your order will be coming right up.”

Vera watched out of the corner of her eye as Emma walked over to the counter. She looked shell shocked. Unsurprisingly. She’d probably thought Vera was dead.

As Vera went about her business, pretending nothing out of the ordinary happened, she caught Emma staring at her. She had to cue her, let her know that, yes, it was her. She was alive. 

One of her coworkers asked her a question about an order. She glanced to make sure Emma was looking, then ran her hand through her hair, tousling it and sweeping it behind her ear. Just like she always used to.

As Emma grabbed her order and left, a glance back at Vera confirmed her plan had worked. Emma was now convinced that her friend had resurfaced.

Vera shoved her emotions down and went about her day as normal. It was only until her walk home that the feelings started to bubble up. She did her best to contain them until she got into her apartment, and just barely succeeded.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, heart pounding. Of all the places in the world - of all the people - could she really have seen her old friend? At one of hundreds of other cafes in this city alone? 

And yet she knew it made sense.

Vera was 21 now. Which meant Emma was in her third year of college. Juniors in college often studied abroad, and Emma had always wanted to go back to France, study fashion in Paris. 

What had really shaken Vera was that way Emma had looked at her. That recognition. Emma knew who she was. Who she was. It felt like a lifetime since someone had looked at her and seen Vera Zagorec, instead of the monster she’d become. Vera Zagorec, not a cold-hearted, hollow shadow sent by Specter to rob or maim or kill.

Vera’s eyes stung as warm tears started building. She closed her eyes, allowing just a few to escape before she took a deep breath and pushed them away. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Vera went to the window and looked into the street below. So many ordinary people, bustling about their day. Completely unaware of the monsters that hid in the shadows. 

Then, Vera caught sight of a flower shop, just across the street. White roses, zinnias… The blooms brought back memories so old Vera was surprised they still existed. Memories of sitting on the grass in the shade of an oak tree, a spectacular find from the library open on Emma’s lap as Vera rested her chin on her friend’s shoulder, looking at the watercolor images of flowers, little paragraphs written in a pretty font describing the symbolism of each flower. They fell in love with that book, and dedicated themselves to memorizing every page. Vera still remembered each word.

Maybe Emma did too.

Vera hurried out the door and down to the flower shop to buy the flowers she needed.

Zinnias - memory of an absent friend. White rose, for secrecy. Primrose meant desperation, and moss for charity, all of it arranged carefully to make the message clear. Hopefully the message would be clear.

Hopefully Emma would understand.

Vera stood at the register, taking countless orders. Hoping beyond hope that Emma would return.

The little bell on the door tinkled as someone entered. Vera looked up, and nearly melted with relief. 

Emma walked up to the register, staring at Vera, who took a deep breath and put on her best, most generic customer-service smile.

“Hello there, how can I help you?”

Vera laid on the fake accent thicker than usual, as if she had been born and raised in France and was trying her best to communicate with a foreigner.

“What’s your name?” Emma asked, barely audible.

“What was that?”

“Comment vous appelez-vous?”

“Ah, I see. My name is Veronique. Would you like to place an order?”

By the look on Emma’s face, Vera judged that she’d made the connection between the names. Emma looked at Vera, more puzzled than ever.

“Just a coffee, please. Heavy cream, no sugar.”

“Coming right up - have a seat and we will call your name when it is ready. Ah, what is your name?”

“Emma.”

“Oh! Emma! Emma O’Connaly by chance?”

“Yes!” Emma said, her eyes lighting up.

Vera smiled, and reached below the counter. 

“A fine-looking gentleman left these here for you,” Vera said, handing Emma the bouquets. Emma’s face fell, but Vera maintained her smile. “You are a very lucky girl to get two bouquets from the same man! Very unusual, but I suppose he must like you very much.”

“Right,” Emma said with a forced smile. “Thanks.”

Emma walked away to sit on a stool looking out at the street as Vera took the next customer’s order. Vera tried to sneak inconspicuous glances.

Please, she thought, please figure it out.

She saw Emma staring morosely at the flowers. Then - maybe Vera was imagining it, but maybe it was true - then Emma frowned and looked more closely.

Emma looked sharply up at Vera, and for just a second they locked eyes, before Vera went on to helping the next customer, a smile plastered on her face. Emma’s name was called for her coffee, and she grabbed it roughly before rushing out the door.

Vera felt nauseous as she made her way home. What if someone figured it out, what if her cry for help had put Emma in danger?

Deep breaths.

Vera rearranged her face into the calm, happy look of an ordinary Parisian. 

She rounded the corner, and saw her apartment door. And leaning against the wall - flowers.

Vera’s breath started gathering up again, but she forced it to be even.

She grabbed the flowers and rushed into her apartment, examining the blooms.

Scarlet zinnias, pink carnations, lilies of the valley, and dark pink roses, surrounded by daisies and blue violets.

Constant friendship… not forgotten… return to happiness… thankfulness. Surrounded by loyal love and faithfulness.

Vera leaned her head back against the wall.

It worked.

“Another bouquet for you, miss,” Vera said, handing Emma the flowers over the counter. “This gentleman is very eager, I’d say.”

“Oh, thank you,” Emma said. “This is so exciting - I’ve never had a secret admirer before!”

This time it was a trickier message - chickweed surrounding a cluster of forget-me-nots, surrounded by twelve blue convolvuli and interspersed with fir and dark pink roses. Rendezvous at a place of true love and memories, 12 at night. Thank you.

Emma grabbed her coffee, and as she walked out the door she let a single piece of chickweed fall out of the bouquet, and Vera understood - I’ll be there.

As Vera made her preparations, a careful plan to inconspicuously get herself and Emma to an abandoned little spot under one of the bridges, she felt a strange feeling bubbling up inside of her. At first she couldn’t identify it. It was stronger, and purer, than joy or relief. It was sweeter than mournful nostalgia. It made her want to cry, but not out of anger or grief or despair. 

Then she realized. It was something she hadn’t felt in years, and never so strong. 

Hope - hope that the memories which for so long had brought her to tears would once more bring her joy. 

Hope that someday, she might know peace once again.