"And yet you can always tell when a bird's song is full of longing, or sorrow," Mary Margaret replies, breaking off another piece of bread and rolling it in between her fingers to turn it into a smaller piece before tossing it out among the rest.

"Honestly?" She pauses, taking in their surroundings for a short moment. "Free. Open. Maybe even a little too exposed, and sometimes a bit nervous as a result. I'm not entirely sure why, though."