Chapter Text
i.
The first thing Emma does is stare wildly around at her surroundings.
Well, no: the first thing she does is almost trip on suddenly too-short legs. The second is gape in disbelief at the forests of Grace Field, perfect in every detail down to the rustling birdsong in her ears– ears?
Her hand darts up on reflex. That's when the voice catches at the edge of her hearing.
“Emma. Emma!” – and Emma jerks uncontrollably because none of them had been able to see Norman at twelve but Emma knows down to her bones how Norman had called her at four and seven and eleven and thirteen and that is what she hears now, even though the one that comes crashing with an uncharacteristic lack of grace through the bushes looks no older than she herself must.
“Emma,” Norman gasps as he falls to an unsteady stop, shoulders heaving under his cardigan. “Are you–”
–okay areyouinjured areyoutheonethatI–
Emma gives the only answer that matters.
“Norman,” she breathes, then louder: “Norman!” and they both go tumbling as she launches herself at him.
“You're going to flatten me, Emma,” Norman says, helplessly, but he's laughing even as she scrambles up with breathless apologies.
Sometime in the intervening years Emma had managed to forget how – not weak, Norman had never been weak, but how vulnerable he’d been when they were young, how she’d always been careful to watch for an impending cold when they were outside playing, checking against the memorised list of warning signs that Ray had meticulously written out.
Emma’s fully reminded of that now as she reaches over to help him up, the laughter having caught on a cough, and he takes her offered hand but waves off her apologies in between catching his breath.
“What day–” Emma shakes her head, plucking off a stray leaf that’d gotten snagged in the wool of Norman’s cardigan. “Which year is it? We're… what, five?”
“I think, yes,” Norman agrees, and from the flicker of his gaze around them Emma knows he's thinking the same thing as her: that it'd explain Ray's conspicuous absence. This must've been around the time he'd almost stopped playing with them completely in favour of books and now they know why, but it still doesn't get them much closer to when.
Emma searches through her pockets for any clue to the latter, deeply regretting having ever agreed to Ray having their only timepiece – but instead her fingertips find the soft crinkle of flowers, a fistful of colour when she pulls them out.
She looks up at Norman's sharp breath, only to find him holding out one of his pocket notebooks, flipped to the last page.
And suddenly she knows without even looking – remembers a card with a carefully planned message in Norman's handwriting around flowers pressed by her hand.
The card for Ray's sixth birthday.
“We have to stop him,” Emma hears herself say, anxiety-sharp without any explanation, but of course Norman understands. “It’s not too late, we can still get there before he makes that deal with Mama!”
“Emma, wait, we don't even know wh–”
“He's by the gate, he's got to be,” she says with certainty, already breaking into a run when Norman catches her arm.
She stops, and he doesn't hesitate. “I meant to say – we don't even know whether this is real.”
Emma frowns. They've both seen their fair share of oddities, but nothing near this level and more importantly: “It doesn't matter, don't you see!” she blurts out, willing Norman to understand because even if this is some kind of alternate reality Emma will be damned if she doesn't at least try.
And she can see the moment he realises, letting go of her arm with a familiar smile. “You're right, it doesn't matter. Let's go!”