Somehow his voice is far more comforting, with the same first words, than her own mind ever was all evening. When he says it's going to be okay she believes him. If only for one second. If only right before the second tear, another flicker of memory.

Mary Margaret tries to hold on it, even as it falls like sand through her fingers. But then he keeps talking, and it ebbs. Almost like the beat of a wave against that same beach of shifting sand.

And she nods, trying to say she does understands, even if it is more to the sweater vest in front of her eyes when they open, so she can rub her right eye. She knows she made the right choice. Maybe it wouldn't even be the right choice if it didn't hurt so much.