Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 9: All My Woes

Wednesday's boots whispered against the corridor's flooring as she made her way through Ophelia Hall's shadows, the familiar path feeling foreign after three hours of fluorescent interrogation rooms. Her blazer hung in tatters across her shoulders, the white shirt beneath stained with blood and library dust. Each step carried the weight of questions repeated endlessly by authorities who seemed to believe repetition would somehow extract different answers.

The doorknob turned under her pale fingers with its familiar resistance, revealing their dorm room bathed in the soft glow of Enid's fairy lights. Wednesday paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of her roommate perched on the edge of her colorful bedspread.

Enid hadn't changed into proper sleepwear—still wearing the pink cotton shorts and oversized lavender sweater she'd changed into after medical treated her wounds. Bandages created stark white lines beneath the fabric, outlining the damage Tyler's claws had inflicted. Her usual animated energy had dimmed to something quiet and watchful.

"You're awake," Wednesday observed, closing the door behind.

"I was waiting for you." Enid's voice carried none of its usual brightness, exhaustion weighing down each syllable. "How did it go? The questioning, I mean."

Wednesday moved toward her side of the room. "Unpleasant. Sheriff Santiago possesses adequate investigative instincts, but Principal Dort's administrative concerns proved tediously repetitive." She paused, fingers working at the buttons of her ruined blazer. "They seem particularly interested in the library's structural integrity and our insurance liability."

The blazer fell to the floor in a whisper of torn fabric. Beneath it, her white shirt revealed the evening's violence—dark stains and three parallel tears where Judi's crows had found their mark.

"At least seventeen repetitions of the same question regarding my 'decision-making process' during the confrontation," Wednesday continued, her analytical tone beginning to fray around the edges. "As if adaptation under duress follows predetermined protocols."

Enid watched her roommate's careful movements, noting the microscopic tremor in Wednesday's usually steady hands. "They kept you there for three hours just to ask the same stuff over and over?"

"Thoroughness masquerading as investigative competence." Wednesday's fingers stilled on her shirt buttons. "Though I suspect my responses regarding the necessity of architectural destruction were considered... inadequate."

The silence hung between them like a bridge neither was ready to cross. Wednesday's gaze found Enid's bandaged form, taking in the white gauze that outlined injuries she should have prevented.

"Are you experiencing pain?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

"I'm okay," Enid replied, though she shifted slightly against her pillows. "The medical staff was really thorough. No supernatural healing to help things along, but they said everything should heal normally. Just... slowly."

Wednesday's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Your abilities will return. The device created temporary suppression, not permanent damage. The others have already begun showing signs of recovery."

The words felt hollow even as she spoke them, an assessment that couldn't account for the variables they didn't understand. But certainty was all she had to offer against the uncertainty that pressed at the edges of everything.

Pulling her knees up against her chest, Enid winced slightly as the movement pulled at her bandages. "What if they don't, though? What if I'm just... normal now?"

"Then you'll adapt," Wednesday said, though something flickered behind her dark eyes. "Your worth isn't contingent on supernatural abilities. Tonight demonstrated that conclusively."

But even as she offered reassurance, her mind catalogued all the ways the evening could have ended differently if Enid's werewolf strength had been available.

Both girls remained suspended in the space between exhaustion and awareness, the weight of everything unsaid from their reunion pressing at the edges of consciousness. The tender moment that had been interrupted by her vision, the desperate embrace in the cemetery, the way they'd clung to each other in the library's ruins—all of it hovered just beyond acknowledgment.

But navigation of such emotional complexity required energy neither possessed. The night had extracted too much, leaving them hollow and careful with each other in ways that felt both familiar and entirely new.

Her fingers traced the edge of her desk as Wednesday attempted to sort through the variables that composed their current situation. Enid sat ten feet away, wounded and vulnerable, requiring comfort that Wednesday wanted desperately to provide but had no template for delivering.

She dissected the problem systematically. Enid's injuries required monitoring throughout the night. Her obvious exhaustion suggested sleep would be difficult to achieve. The lingering effects of whatever compound Tyler had administered could present additional complications. These were concrete concerns with logical solutions.

But beneath the clinical assessment lay emotional territory that her sixteen years of experience had never adequately mapped. The way Enid had melted into her arms in the cemetery. The desperate relief in her roommate's voice when they'd found each other alive. The moment before her vision had torn them apart earlier that day, when Enid's thumb had traced her cheekbone.

Analyze the data, she commanded herself. What does the evidence suggest?

The evidence suggested that Enid possessed a functional relationship with Bruno. Someone who understood her emotional needs without requiring instruction manuals. Someone who had proven his protective instincts during both of Tyler's attacks, who spoke her language of warmth and affection.

Wednesday had observed their easy rapport throughout the evening—the way Bruno had guided Enid through the festival crowds, how naturally he'd provided support during her medical treatment, the protective positioning he'd maintained even when his own injuries limited his effectiveness. That pattern indicated established intimacy that Wednesday had no business disrupting.

Her role was investigative partner and strategic ally. Not emotional confidante. Not whatever category encompassed the feelings that currently churned beneath her ribs like live electricity.

She moved toward her dresser, pulling out black silk pajamas and her bathroom caddy. The routine offered refuge from complexity that felt too vast to navigate successfully.

"I should—" She paused, fingers tight around her toiletries. "I need to wash off tonight. And think."

Enid looked up from her position against the pillows, something unreadable flickering across her features. "Yeah. Of course. Take your time."

Wednesday paused at the door, her hand resting against the familiar weight of the handle. The impulse to return, to sit beside Enid and attempt whatever comfort she could manufacture, pulled at her consciousness with surprising intensity.

But she possessed no expertise in emotional support. No proven methods for providing the kind of healing that transcended medical bandages. Her attempts would likely prove inadequate, possibly harmful.

Better to maintain distance than risk causing additional damage through incompetence.

The hallway's dim lighting provided welcome anonymity as Wednesday made her way toward Ophelia Hall's community bathroom, her bare feet silent against cold floors. Behind her, the soft glow from their room marked the doorway she'd abandoned, but she forced herself not to look back.

Routine, she reminded herself. Structure provides stability when emotions become unmanageable.

The bathroom's harsh lighting felt almost punitive after the gentle warmth of their room, but Wednesday welcomed the sharp environment. Emotions seemed smaller under illumination, more manageable when reflected in unforgiving mirrors.

She began the process of removing the evening's evidence from her appearance, each action providing temporary escape from the weight of decisions she didn't understand how to make.

Wednesday emerged from the bathroom exactly fourteen minutes later, her black silk pajamas replacing the torn remnants of evening wear. The familiar ritual of cleansing had provided the temporary refuge she desired, though the sharp scent of antiseptic lingered on her hands where she'd cleaned her own wounds.

She paused in the doorway, expecting to find Enid settled beneath her rainbow-colored comforter, finally surrendering to the exhaustion that lined her features. Instead, her roommate remained perched on the edge of her bed in exactly the same position, lavender sweater and pink shorts unchanged.

She should be sleeping.

Moving through their shared space with quiet steps, Wednesday switched off Enid's fairy lights and the desk lamp until only pale moonlight filtered through their spider-web window. The silver glow transformed familiar objects into shadowy suggestions—textbooks became angular monuments, clothing draped over chairs became watchful figures.

Sliding beneath her own dark sheets, Wednesday settled against her pillow. But across the division that separated their worlds, Enid's silhouette remained motionless against the window's light. The werewolf's restless energy had been replaced by something brittle and alert, as if she were keeping vigil against threats that might emerge from darkness.

Minutes stretched between them, marked only by the soft whisper of wind against ancient glass. Wednesday processed through possible explanations—residual trauma from Tyler's attack, pain from injuries, psychological effects from whatever device had been used to suppress her abilities. All valid concerns.

The careful distance they'd maintained since her return from questioning felt suddenly inadequate against Enid's obvious distress.

"Are you experiencing difficulty sleeping?" Wednesday asked, her voice soft in the silver-touched darkness.

Enid's silhouette shifted slightly, though she didn't turn toward Wednesday's voice. "I'm okay. Just... thinking."

The response felt hollow, deflection rather than truth. Wednesday's fingers worried against her sheets as she processed the information available—Enid's rigid posture, the careful way she held herself despite obvious exhaustion, the brittle quality that replaced her usual warmth.

"Your injuries require rest for proper healing," Wednesday continued, though she knew medical necessity wasn't the true concern keeping Enid upright. Something else held her roommate suspended between wakefulness and surrender.

Several heartbeats passed before Enid spoke again.

"I'm not okay."

The words fell into darkness like stones dropped into deep water, creating ripples that Wednesday felt more than heard. Enid's silhouette remained rigid against the window, but something in her posture had shifted—a careful control that spoke of walls crumbling despite desperate attempts to maintain them.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see his face," Enid continued, her voice cracking slightly on the admission. "Tyler, in the cemetery. The way he looked at me when he knew I was powerless. Like I was just... prey."

Wednesday's fingers stilled against her sheets as she processed the fear threading through Enid's words. The werewolf who faced down Hydes and stalkers now sounded impossibly young, stripped of the supernatural confidence that had always defined her.

"I keep reaching for my wolf," Enid whispered. "I know it's not there, but I can't stop trying. And when I realize it's still gone, I just... I can't breathe properly."

The confession hung between them, raw and unguarded in a way that made Wednesday's chest tighten. She could hear the effort it cost Enid to voice such vulnerability, the way each word scraped against pride and self-sufficiency.

"Without my powers, I'm just..." Enid's voice trailed off, then strengthened with visible determination. "Wednesday, could I—would it be okay if I slept in your bed? Just for tonight?"

The request sent Wednesday's mind into immediate overdrive. Her protective instincts struggled with uncertainty about boundaries, about appropriateness, about whether this was territory that rightfully belonged to Bruno's steady presence rather than her awkward attempts at comfort.

The pause stretched longer than intended as Wednesday processed implications she had no experience navigating. Enid needed comfort. Needed the security of proximity to someone who could protect her in ways she currently couldn't protect herself. But Wednesday possessed no expertise in providing such reassurance, no proven methods for offering the kind of healing that transcended tactical solutions.

Bruno would know how to handle this properly, she thought. He understands emotional support in ways I clearly don't.

But Enid had asked her. Not Bruno, not anyone else. Her.

"Yes," Wednesday said, then added quietly, "Though you might find the decor less than comforting."

The deliberate attempt at humor felt foreign on her tongue, but something in Enid's posture relaxed slightly at the familiar sarcasm. Wednesday shifted toward the far edge of her narrow bed, creating space while maintaining the distance that felt necessary for both their sanity.

"Thank you," Enid breathed, and even in darkness Wednesday could hear the relief that made her voice shake.

The mattress dipped as Enid carefully slipped beneath Wednesday's dark sheets. The bed that had always seemed adequate for solitary occupation suddenly felt too small with two bodies attempting to navigate its confines without contact.

Enid settled against the pillow with a soft exhale, her lavender sweater a splash of color against Wednesday's monochrome bedding. For several heartbeats, they lay parallel but separate, each maintaining careful distance despite the limited space.

Then Wednesday noticed the tremor.

It started as barely perceptible movement in the mattress, small vibrations that suggested Enid's body was betraying the calm facade she attempted to maintain. The trembling intensified gradually—whether from residual shock, the night's accumulated trauma, or simple exhaustion, Wednesday couldn't determine. But the sight of her usually vibrant roommate reduced to such fragility sent protective instincts surging through her chest.

Physical comfort represented territory she had no experience navigating. Her family expressed affection through sardonic observations and elaborate schemes rather than conventional gestures. The Addams household had never required her to develop expertise in providing warmth or reassurance.

But Enid's trembling continued, each small shiver a testament to vulnerabilities that superseded Wednesday's discomfort with emotional expression.

Moving slowly, Wednesday shifted closer until her arm could extend across the space between them. Her pale hand hovered for a moment above Enid's shoulder, uncertainty making her fingers shake before she finally made contact.

The gesture felt foreign—her arm settling around Enid's form with the awkwardness of someone attempting to comfort based on theoretical knowledge rather than instinct. But Enid melted into the touch immediately, her trembling gradually subsiding as Wednesday's steady presence anchored her against whatever darkness had been pursuing her thoughts.

Wednesday's fingers found the soft fabric of Enid's sweater, the lavender wool warm against her palm. This close, she could detect the lingering antiseptic scent from medical treatment mixing with Enid's familiar vanilla fragrance. The combination should have been unpleasant, but instead it provided concrete evidence that her roommate was alive, breathing, safe.

Neither spoke. Words felt inadequate against the weight of everything they'd endured, everything they'd nearly lost. The vocabulary Wednesday usually wielded like surgical instruments seemed hollow when measured against the simple reality of Enid's warmth beneath her arm.

Moonlight filtered through their spider-web window, casting silver patterns across the ceiling and providing just enough illumination to reveal the outline of familiar features. When Enid turned slightly to face her, Wednesday found herself studying the gentle curve of her roommate's profile, the way shadows emphasized the delicate line of her jaw.

Their eyes met across the narrow space that separated them.

Wednesday had catalogued those blue eyes countless times—during arguments and reconciliations, through investigations and quiet moments of shared understanding. But this was different. The usual sparkle had been tempered by exhaustion and vulnerability, leaving something deeper and more complex in its place.

Gratitude, certainly. Relief at finding safety after hours of terror. But beneath those recognizable emotions lay something else entirely—an awareness that felt simultaneously fragile and inevitable, like recognizing a truth that had been waiting patiently for acknowledgment.

Wednesday's thumb traced an unconscious pattern against Enid's shoulder, a small gesture that carried more weight than either was prepared to examine. The space between them seemed to hold potential energy, as if the slightest movement might tip them toward territory neither had mapped.

But exhaustion pulled at the edges of consciousness. The night's accumulated trauma demanded rest, and their bodies had finally reached the limits of what adrenaline could sustain. Wednesday felt her eyelids growing heavy despite the electric awareness that seemed to hum between them.

Enid's breathing gradually deepened, the careful alertness that had held her rigid finally surrendering to the security of Wednesday's steady presence. Her features softened as sleep began claiming her, tension melting away until only peaceful exhaustion remained.

Wednesday maintained her protective positioning even as her own consciousness began to fade. Her arm remained curved around Enid's form, anchoring them both against whatever nightmares might attempt to surface. For once, her analytical mind quieted its constant cataloguing, allowing simple presence to suffice where words had proven inadequate.

In the pale light that filtered through ancient glass, they drifted toward sleep together—two figures finding in each other's proximity the safety that had eluded them when alone.

In the nightmare, Enid was always reaching.

Her fingers stretched toward something vital that danced just beyond her grasp, the object shifting and blurring each time she thought she'd finally touched it. Her legs pumped frantically, muscles burning with effort, but the ground beneath her feet remained static. Running without moving, reaching without touching—trapped in the terrible logic of dreams where desperation met impossibility.

The abstract terror crystallized suddenly, dream fragments coalescing into her worst fear made manifest.

Wednesday stood in the cemetery clearing, pale hands pressed against wounds that leaked dark blood across her white shirt. Tyler loomed behind her, his Hyde form towering over her petite frame. Those terrible features split into a grin that revealed too many teeth while Wednesday's voice cut through the night air.

"Enid! Help me!"

The words echoed through her mind, each syllable carrying desperate need that made Enid's chest crack with panic. She lunged forward, every instinct screaming at her to protect Wednesday, to stand between her roommate and the monster that meant to destroy her.

But her body betrayed her. No supernatural speed flooded her limbs, no enhanced strength answered her call. Her legs moved with frustrating human limitations while Tyler's claws descended toward Wednesday's body.

"Look at her," Tyler's distorted voice carried mocking amusement. "Calling for help from someone who can't even help herself."

Enid strained against the dream's physics, willing her werewolf form to emerge, desperate for claws and fangs and the power to make Tyler pay for every threat he'd made. Nothing came. Just ordinary human flesh struggling against nightmares that demanded something more.

"She really believed you could save her," Tyler continued. "How disappointing it must be, realizing your protector is just a scared little girl playing dress-up."

Wednesday's scream echoed across the dreamscape as Tyler's claws tore through her chest. Blood bloomed across white fabric while Wednesday's dark eyes found Enid's with accusation that cut deeper than any physical wound.

You were supposed to protect me.

The thought came in Wednesday's voice. A matter-of-fact observation that made it impossible to deny. Enid had promised to stand by her roommate's side, sworn they'd face whatever came together. Instead, she'd watched helplessly while Tyler destroyed the person who mattered most.

Tyler turned toward Enid with that horrible predatory grin. "Your turn, little wolf."

The realization crashed through her dream consciousness just as Tyler's claws reached for her throat—

Enid jolted awake with a gasp that tore from her chest like a physical wound.

Tears were already streaming down her face, her heart hammering against her ribs with residual terror. The nightmare's images clung to her consciousness—Wednesday's blood, Tyler's laughter, her own devastating helplessness played out in excruciating detail.

Dim morning light filtered through their window, casting soft shadows across familiar furniture. The digital clock on Wednesday's nightstand glowed 6:47 AM in green numbers that seemed impossibly mundane after the horror her subconscious had conjured.

Then she registered the warm presence beside her.

Wednesday's sleeping face lay inches away, peaceful in a way that never appeared during waking hours. Her dark hair had escaped its usual perfect braids, loose strands fanning across the pillow while her breathing remained deep and steady. The arm that had anchored Enid against the night's terrors still curved protectively around her form, maintaining the gesture of security even in unconsciousness.

The sight should have been comforting. Wednesday was alive, unharmed, exactly where she was supposed to be. But instead of relief, Enid felt the nightmare's crushing truth settle into her bones.

Without her werewolf abilities, she was exactly what Tyler had called her—a scared little girl playing dress-up in a world full of supernatural threats. Wednesday would face more enemies, more investigations, more situations where she needed someone capable of watching her back. And Enid would be useless.

Worse than useless. A liability.

Moving carefully, Enid extracted herself from Wednesday's unconscious embrace, lifting her arm gently and sliding out inch by inch to avoid disturbing the first peaceful sleep her roommate had managed in days. The process felt like abandoning something precious, but staying meant risking another breakdown when Wednesday woke.

Her feet found the cold floor silently as she navigated their room's familiar obstacles. On Wednesday's desk, her phone had accumulated several notifications during the night—missed messages that glowed insistently in the morning light.

Enid grabbed the device hoping for news about Judi or Tyler that might restore some sense of security. Instead, she found an email from Principal Dort time-stamped at 11:43 PM the previous evening.

Subject: Gala Update - Moving Forward Together

Dear Nevermore Community,

Tonight's events tested our resolve, but they also demonstrated the incredible strength and resilience that defines our outcast family. After careful consideration and consultation with security experts, I'm pleased to announce that our fundraising gala will proceed as scheduled this Saturday evening.

This elegant affair will celebrate not just our donors' generosity, but our community's triumph over those who sought to harm us. We refuse to let fear dictate our future. Instead, we choose to move forward with the grace and dignity that honors Nevermore's proud heritage.

Formal attire required. Light hors d'oeuvres and entertainment provided. Let us show the world that Nevermore Academy emerges from adversity stronger than ever.

With Outcast Pride,

Principal Barry Dort

Enid stared at the screen until the words blurred, overwhelmed by the surreal disconnect between Dort's cheerful optimism and her own emotional devastation. While she'd been trapped in nightmares about failing to protect Wednesday, the administration had been composing upbeat announcements about "moving forward" and "triumph."

The world just kept going. Like nothing happened. Like people hadn't almost died.

She glanced back at Wednesday's sleeping form, noting the careful way her roommate positioned herself even in unconsciousness—always alert, always ready to respond to threats. How long before Wednesday realized that having Enid around made everything more complicated? How long before she started making excuses to work alone again?

Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks as the full scope of her new reality settled into place. She was ordinary now. Human. Exactly what she'd spent her entire life trying to prove she wasn't.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Bruno checking if she was okay, offering breakfast together if she wanted company. The kindness in his simple message made her chest ache with gratitude and guilt in equal measure.

Everyone kept trying to take care of her. Everyone kept treating her like something fragile that needed protection.

Because that's what she was now.

Wednesday stirred slightly in her sleep, her peaceful expression flickering with some dream that made her brow furrow. Even unconscious, she looked like she was solving mysteries, planning strategies, being the brilliant force of nature that everyone counted on.

Enid couldn't bear to be there when she woke up. Couldn't handle seeing pity or concern in those dark eyes, couldn't stomach another conversation about how her worth wasn't tied to her abilities when they both knew better.

Turning toward her dresser, she pulled out clothes with hands that trembled from more than just nightmare residue. The day was starting whether she was ready or not, and she needed to figure out how to exist in a world where she'd become exactly what she'd always feared being.

Ordinary.

Enid drifted through Ophelia Hall's corridors like a ghost haunting familiar territory. The ancient stonework pressed closer than it ever had before, shadows pooling in alcoves that once held adventure now feeling oppressive. Without her enhanced hearing, footsteps echoed differently—sharper, more isolated—stripped of the layered richness that had once painted entire emotional landscapes.

Everything felt muted. Colors appeared flat and lifeless, scents registered as distant impressions, and the world seemed wrapped in cotton that separated her from genuine sensation.

Her wandering brought her to the infirmary wing, drawn by some half-conscious need to check on the casualties of her failures. The morning nurse looked up from her paperwork as Enid approached, her expression softening with recognition.

"Oh, honey, how are you feeling? Those were some nasty cuts you took."

"I'm okay," Enid replied automatically, the lie burning her throat. "I wanted to check on Ajax. Is he...?"

"Sleeping, but stable. Concussion's healing nicely. You can visit if you'd like—just keep it quiet."

Enid nodded her thanks and made her way to Ajax's room, her heart clenching as she took in his still form beneath white hospital sheets. Bandages wrapped around his head under his beanie, and dark bruises painted abstract patterns across his visible skin. But his chest rose and fell with steady breathing that spoke of genuine healing.

She settled into the chair beside his bed, studying his peaceful features. The sight sent fresh guilt cascading through her chest.

He almost died because of me. Because I couldn't protect anyone.

"Enid?"

His voice emerged soft and slightly hoarse, green eyes blinking open to focus on her tear-streaked face. A gentle smile curved his lips despite the obvious pain that moving caused him.

"Hey," she whispered. "You're awake."

"Been drifting in and out since they brought me here." Ajax shifted carefully against his pillows, wincing slightly. "Nurse said you got hurt too. Are you okay?"

The question made her throat tighten. Here he was, bandaged and battered from saving her life, and his first concern was for her wellbeing.

"Ajax, I'm so sorry. About everything." The words tumbled out in a rush. "About Bruno, about how I handled that whole situation. About you getting hurt because I—"

"Hey." His voice carried gentle firmness, cutting through her spiral. "Water under the bridge, okay? I heard about you and Bruno... I get it."

Enid blinked, startled by the admission. "What?"

"You've always talked about Wednesday differently than you talked about anyone else. Even Bruno and me." Ajax's expression held no bitterness. "It took me a while to figure out what that meant, but... I get it now."

Shame and gratitude warred in her chest. He'd known. Somehow, he'd recognized the truth she'd been hiding from herself, and instead of resenting her for it, he'd simply accepted it.

"You deserved better than someone who was confused about her feelings," she said, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

"I deserved honesty. And eventually, I got it." Ajax reached out carefully, his fingers finding hers despite the IV line that limited his movement. "We're good, Enid. Really."

The forgiveness felt both healing and devastating. Ajax's grace highlighted the distance between his generous spirit and her own self-absorbed spiral.

"I couldn't save you," she whispered, voicing the fear that had been clawing at her since the cemetery. "In the mausoleum, when Tyler attacked, I was completely useless. You almost died protecting us, and I couldn't do anything to help."

Ajax squeezed her fingers gently. "You survived. That's not nothing."

"But I'm broken now." The words escaped before she could stop them. "My powers are gone, Ajax. Everyone else got theirs back, but mine... they're just gone. I can't protect anyone. I can't even protect myself."

She waited for false reassurances, for him to tell her that her abilities would return or that she didn't need supernatural gifts to have value. Instead, Ajax was quiet for a long moment, his green eyes studying her face.

"You know what it felt like, being the only werewolf who couldn't transform?" he said finally.

Enid nodded, remembering those conversations from their early relationship when Ajax had shared his struggles with feeling incomplete among peers who'd accessed their abilities on schedule.

"Like everyone else belonged to some club you couldn't join. Like the world was having conversations in a language you couldn't speak."

"Yes," she breathed, startled by how perfectly he captured the isolation.

"And even after my snakes finally worked properly, I still remember that feeling. I still catch myself checking to make sure they're awake." Ajax's thumb traced across her knuckles. "It changes you, you know? That kind of doubt about yourself."

The validation felt like oxygen after drowning. Ajax understood the specific terror of being outcast among outcasts, of feeling fundamentally wrong in spaces designed for people like you.

"I don't know how to be just... human," she admitted. "I don't know how to exist without being able to protect the people I care about."

"Maybe you don't have to figure it out all at once," Ajax suggested. "Maybe you just have to figure out today. Then tomorrow. One day at a time."

The conversation was treading too close to territory that threatened to shatter whatever composure she had left. Gratitude for Ajax's understanding battled with the need to retreat before she broke down completely in front of him.

She pulled her hand free despite the comfort his touch provided. "I should let you rest. The nurse said you need to take it easy."

"Enid." His voice stopped her as she reached the door. "I'm here if you need to talk. About any of it. No judgment, no pressure. Just... if you need someone who gets it."

The offer was exactly what she needed and couldn't bear to accept. Ajax's kindness felt like a spotlight on her own inadequacy.

"Thank you," she managed, then slipped into the hallway before her resolve could crumble.

The old greenhouse behind the botany building became her refuge—a place where no one would think to look, wedged between dusty potting benches and forgotten planters that hadn't seen use since Thornhill's arrest. Cobwebs stretched between ceramic containers like nature's funeral shrouds, and the air tasted of stale soil and abandonment.

Her phone buzzed for the fourteenth time in an hour, Bruno's contact photo smiling up at her. She silenced the call without reading his latest message. She couldn't handle his concern right now, couldn't bear another conversation about how things would be okay when they both knew better.

I'm being cruel to him, she thought, pressing her face against her knees. He's worried, and I'm hiding like a coward.

But the alternative—pretending everything was fine while her world crumbled around her—felt impossible.

The greenhouse windows filtered afternoon sunlight into gold-green patterns that danced across her hiding spot. Under normal circumstances, she would have been able to hear students passing on nearby paths, detect conversations from the main building, sense the subtle shifts in air pressure that indicated weather changes. Now she caught only muffled sounds and vague impressions, disconnected from the sensory richness she once took for granted.

Lifting her hand, she stared at her ordinary human fingers. Such small things, really. Multi-colored nail polish chipped from the previous night's violence, silver rings that Ajax had given her during their brief relationship, a thin scar on her thumb from a childhood accident. Nothing special. Nothing dangerous.

Come on, she pleaded silently, focusing all her willpower on the familiar sensation of claws extending. Please. Just this once.

Her fingernails remained stubbornly normal.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Bianca: Haven't seen you all day. You okay?

Enid stared at the message. Bianca had her own recovery to focus on, her own injuries from the previous night. The last thing she needed was Enid's emotional breakdown adding to her stress.

Another text appeared, this one from Kent: Group dinner later? Think we all need to relax.

The thoughtfulness in the offer made her stomach twist. Her friends were trying to maintain connection after trauma, reaching out to ensure no one processed alone. But their kindness felt like salt in wounds she'd inflicted on herself.

A new message from Bruno appeared: Enid, please talk to me. I'm starting to get worried.

The concern in his words sent fresh guilt cascading through her. He'd risked his life to save her, fought Tyler with nothing but a sword and determination. Now he was expending emotional energy on her wellbeing when he should be celebrating survival.

She'd become exactly what she'd always feared—a burden masquerading as a team member.

The truth was brutally simple. With Judi still loose somewhere, every moment Enid spent around her friends created a potential nightmare. They would have to choose between completing whatever mission arose and protecting her. Worse, she knew them well enough to predict they'd prioritize her safety over strategy, potentially getting themselves killed in the process.

Her phone buzzed with another call from Bruno. This time, she powered her phone off completely, unable to handle another display of affection she couldn't return appropriately.

As afternoon shifted toward evening, she attempted one final test of her abilities. Her fingernails remained stubbornly normal. Her hearing stayed frustratingly human. The enhanced night vision that had always activated automatically as darkness fell never came.

Nothing. She was nothing.

When full darkness claimed the greenhouse, Enid finally forced herself to move. Her legs had cramped from hours in the same position, and her bandaged ribs protested every movement. The walk back to Ophelia Hall felt endless, each step carrying her closer to conversations she couldn't handle.

Students moved through the common areas, their supernatural abilities manifesting in casual displays—telekinesis that caught falling objects, siren voices that carried perfect pitch, vampire grace that made ordinary walking look like choreography.

Enid slipped past them like a phantom, avoiding eye contact that might invite interaction. Her phone had accumulated seventeen missed calls and thirty-two unread messages during her self-imposed isolation.

Climbing the stairs to their floor, she prayed Wednesday was still wherever she'd spent the day. The last thing she could handle was her roommate's perceptive gaze cataloguing her deteriorating emotional state.

She'll see right through me, Enid thought as she approached their door. She'll know exactly how broken I really am.

Enid pressed her ear against their dorm room door, listening for any sound that might indicate Wednesday's presence within. Silence. Either her roommate was elsewhere, or she was maintaining the perfect stillness that came naturally to her.

Please be empty, Enid thought, turning the handle with careful precision.

The door opened to reveal Wednesday at her desk, her back straight as she typed on her typewriter. Though she didn't turn at Enid's entrance, the subtle pause in her typing indicated awareness of the intrusion.

"You've been gone for most of the day. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to assemble a search team."

Enid closed the door and leaned against it, summoning what remained of her performance abilities. "Sorry! I was just... around campus. Checking on Ajax, walking around. You know how it is."

The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but she forced brightness into her voice that felt like wearing someone else's costume. Her usual animated gestures felt wooden, but she managed a casual shrug that she hoped looked natural.

Wednesday's fingers stilled against her keyboard. "How is Ajax?"

"Good! Really good, actually. Awake and talking and the doctors say he's healing perfectly." The words fumbled out too quickly, each syllable stretched thin with false enthusiasm. "He's going to be completely fine. No permanent damage or anything."

"And you?" The chair rotated with its familiar squeak as Wednesday faced Enid directly. "How are you?"

Dark eyes studied Enid's face, cataloguing details that most people would miss. But instead of the analytical insight Enid had learned to expect, something softer flickered in her roommate's expression—concern wrapped in characteristic restraint.

"I'm great!" Enid replied, the exclamation point audible in her forced cheer. "Really, I'm feeling so much better today. Got some good sleep, talked to Ajax, cleared my head. You know how I bounce back!"

Wednesday's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, something that might have been disappointment flickering behind her mask. "I see."

The flat response carried weight that Enid couldn't decode. Wednesday's gaze lingered for another moment before she turned back to her typewriter, fingers resuming their steady rhythm against the keys.

"Well," Enid continued, her voice growing shriller as she filled the silence, "I should probably get ready for bed. Early day tomorrow with classes and everything. Back to normal routine!"

Moving toward her dresser with steps that felt too quick, too jerky, she grabbed pajamas with hands that shook slightly. The soft fabric of her favorite sleep shirt—pink cotton printed with tiny wolves—felt foreign against her fingertips.

"Enid."

Wednesday's voice stopped her as she reached for her bathroom essentials. The single word carried a question that Enid wasn't ready to answer.

"Yeah?"

"Last night, you experienced distress regarding sleep. If needed, the offer remains available."

The offer hung in the air between them, gentle and devastating in equal measure. Last night's sanctuary beckoned—Wednesday's steady presence, the security of arms that had anchored her against nightmare terrors, the warmth that had finally allowed exhaustion to claim her.

But accepting would mean admitting she was still broken, still afraid, still the burden everyone had to accommodate. It would mean Wednesday would lie awake monitoring Enid's breathing, sacrificing her own rest to provide comfort that Enid should be able to manage independently.

"Thanks, but I'm totally fine now!" The words came out too loud, too bright, too obviously false. "I think last night was just... you know, adrenaline crash or whatever."

Wednesday's typing stopped completely.

"I understand," Wednesday said finally, though her tone suggested she understood far more than Enid wanted her to.

Enid escaped to the bathroom before the conversation could continue, closing the door with relief that felt like defeat. Under harsh bathroom lighting, her reflection revealed the truth she'd been trying to hide—dark circles under red-rimmed eyes, skin pale from exhaustion, the brittle quality of someone holding themselves together through pure willpower.

She knows. She knows I'm lying, and she's letting me.

Wednesday was giving her space instead of pushing for honesty, respecting boundaries that Enid had established through deception. It was exactly the opposite of Wednesday's usual direct approach—a kindness that made Enid's stomach twist with self-loathing.

When she returned to their room, Wednesday had moved to her own bed, dark pajamas making her nearly invisible against black sheets. Her breathing too measured, too controlled—the careful rhythm of someone feigning sleep to avoid uncomfortable conversations.

Enid slipped beneath her own rainbow-colored comforter, the familiar softness providing no comfort. Across the space that divided their worlds, Wednesday's presence felt both too close and impossibly distant.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She was doing exactly what Wednesday had done during their previous crisis—pulling away under the guise of protection, using distance as a weapon against the people who cared about her. But where Wednesday's withdrawal had been misguided strategy, Enid's felt like pure cowardice.

"Good night," she whispered into the darkness.

"Good night, Enid."

Wednesday's response carried no accusation, no demand for truth. Just acceptance of whatever boundaries Enid felt necessary to maintain. The grace in it made tears leak from the corners of Enid's eyes onto her pillow.

Minutes stretched into hours as she lay motionless, afraid to shift or sigh or do anything that might indicate wakefulness. Her enhanced hearing would have detected Wednesday's heartbeat, her breathing patterns, the tiny sounds that indicated genuine versus performed sleep. Now she had only guesswork and the terrible certainty that she was failing everyone who tried to help her.

Across the room, Wednesday's breath gradually settled into natural rhythm, but Enid caught the occasional shift that suggested her roommate remained equally wakeful. They lay parallel in their separate beds, both pretending to sleep while processing the weight of everything unsaid between them.

She's worried about me. She's staying awake because she knows I'm lying.

The thought sent fresh guilt spiraling through her chest. Wednesday needed rest to function properly, needed sleep to maintain the sharp focus that kept everyone safe. Instead, she was lying awake monitoring Enid's obviously distressed state, probably calculating intervention strategies for crises that might emerge from her roommate's deteriorating mental health.

Even in her attempt to become less of a burden, Enid had created more problems for everyone around her.

The darkness pressed closer as night deepened, bringing with it the promise of dreams she couldn't bear to face. But sleeping meant risking another nightmare about failing to protect Wednesday, another scenario where her powerlessness cost lives she couldn't afford to lose.

Better to lie awake until exhaustion forced unconsciousness than to voluntarily surrender to visions of her own inadequacy.

Her phone buzzed softly against her nightstand—another message from Bruno, probably. She'd ignored his increasingly concerned attempts at contact throughout the day, unable to bear his kindness when she felt so hollow inside.

The device fell silent, but its brief illumination had revealed the time: 2:47 AM. Hours still remained before dawn could provide excuse to abandon the pretense of sleep.

In the room's darkness, Wednesday finally drifted into true slumber. The sound should have been comforting, but instead it highlighted Enid's own wakefulness, her inability to accept the peace that Wednesday's presence offered.

She was destroying herself and hurting everyone who tried to help in the process.

The pattern would continue tomorrow, and the day after, and every day until she either recovered her abilities or learned to live without them. But tonight, in the hollow darkness of her too-quiet room, both possibilities seemed equally impossible.

The alarm screamed at 7:30 AM, just like it had every weekday morning since she was seven years old. Enid's hand found the snooze button, muscle memory functioning even when everything else felt broken.

Nine minutes later, it screamed again.

She rolled out of bed with movements that felt choreographed by someone else—feet hitting cold floor, stumbling toward the bathroom, turning on shower water that she'd stand under without really feeling. The routine carried her forward when conscious thought felt too heavy to manage.

Monday blurred past in a series of mechanical actions performed by a body that moved through familiar motions while her mind remained somewhere else entirely. Classes happened around her—professors spoke, students took notes, life continued its relentless forward momentum—but she experienced it all as if watching from behind a window.

Dance class that afternoon felt like moving underwater.

Enid forced her body through the motions. Her limbs moved where they were supposed to move but the joy that had once transformed simple movements into pure expression remained absent. She was dancing the way a wind-up toy might dance—all technical accuracy with no soul.

In the mirror that lined the studio wall, she caught glimpses of herself throughout the routine. Her usually careful attention to appearance had begun to slip—hair thrown into a messy ponytail instead of her signature rainbow-streaked styles, dance clothes wrinkled from being grabbed off the floor that morning. The girl in the reflection looked like a faded photograph of someone she used to know.

Tuesday dawned gray and colorless, autumn settling over Nevermore's grounds like a shroud. The daily ritual began anew—alarm, shower, classes, dance—each action feeling increasingly pointless as the day progressed.

Her phone had accumulated forty-three unread messages and twenty-seven missed calls. Bruno's contact photo smiled up at her from the lock screen, his warm expression an accusation she couldn't bear to face. How many times could he reach out before giving up on someone who refused to respond?

He deserves better than this, she thought, powering off the device completely. They all do.

After classes, she returned to the greenhouse, curling up in the same corner between forgotten planters. The cobwebs had grown thicker, dust motes dancing in afternoon light that filtered through grimy windows. It felt appropriate somehow—hiding in a place that had been abandoned, sitting among the remnants of things that used to grow.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd skipped lunch again. Food had begun to taste like ash, each bite an effort that required more energy than she possessed. But the hunger felt distant, unimportant compared to the crushing weight of everything else.

When darkness fell, she forced herself to return to Ophelia Hall. The common areas buzzed with normal student activity—friends studying together, couples sharing quiet conversations, people living their lives with supernatural abilities intact.

Wednesday occupied her desk when Enid entered their room. She acknowledged Enid's arrival only with a brief pause in her typing.

"How was your day?"

"Fine," Enid replied, the word hollow and meaningless. "Yours?"

"Productive."

That was it. The entire scope of their interaction before Enid escaped to the bathroom, then to her bed, then to the sleepless hours that stretched ahead like an endless corridor.

She lay motionless under her rainbow comforter, staring at ceiling patterns that moonlight painted across familiar plaster. Beside her, Wednesday eventually succumbed to sleep, but Enid remained trapped in wakefulness that felt more like drowning than insomnia.

Every thought circled back to the same devastating truth: she was broken in ways that might never heal.

Her phone remained silent on the nightstand, finally run out of battery after two days of ignored messages. The device's dark screen felt like a tombstone marking the death of connections she'd systematically severed through neglect and avoidance.

Bruno had probably given up by now. Ajax would focus on his own recovery. Bianca and Kent would move on with their lives, grateful to have survived Tyler's attack but no longer feeling obligated to check on someone who clearly didn't want help.

Even Wednesday had stopped trying, respecting the boundaries Enid had established through silence and deflection. Her roommate's thoughtful gestures—a cup of tea left on Enid's nightstand, homework assignments quietly shared, the careful way she moved through their space to avoid disturbing Enid's fragile equilibrium—all went unacknowledged.

I'm hurting her by pulling away, but I can't stop. I don't know how to stop.

The person who'd promised to stand by Wednesday's side through anything had become someone who couldn't even accept comfort from the person she cared about most. A few feet away, Wednesday shifted slightly in her sleep, dark hair spilling across her pillow like ink against white fabric.

She doesn't need me. She never really needed me. I just convinced myself she did because it made me feel important.

Wednesday was brilliant, resourceful, perfectly capable of handling whatever challenges arose. Her investigations would continue, mysteries would be solved, threats would be neutralized—all without requiring assistance from someone whose main qualification had been supernatural abilities that were now absent.

The future stretched ahead like an endless expanse of gray days and mechanical routines. Classes to attend, assignments to complete, conversations to deflect. She would graduate eventually, find some normal job in some normal town, live a perfectly ordinary life among perfectly ordinary people who would never know she'd once been extraordinary.

The thought of existing for decades in this hollow shell of herself felt worse than dying.

Her chest tightened with each breath, panic and despair creating a feedback loop that made the walls feel closer, the air thinner. She was drowning in her own thoughts, suffocating on fears that multiplied faster than she could process them.

I can't do this, she thought desperately. I can't live like this.

But she didn't know how to live any other way. The vibrant, confident Enid felt as gone as her werewolf abilities—maybe more gone, because at least her powers might theoretically return. She wasn't sure the same could be said for the person she used to be.

The ceiling stared back at her, offering no answers, no relief, no hope that tomorrow might feel different than today. Just the terrible certainty that she'd become exactly what she'd always feared being seen as—ordinary, helpless, unnecessary.

The darkness pressed closer as Tuesday night deepened toward Wednesday morning, carrying with it the promise of another identical day in a future that felt impossible to endure.

The silence in the Rotwood Cottage carried weight that settled like velvet over everything it touched. She remained in her wingback chair with the stillness of someone who had excavated decades of buried pain and wasn't entirely certain what to do with what she'd unearthed. Her usual fluid gestures had been reduced to the barely perceptible rise and fall of her breathing, hands folded in her lap.

Across from her, Hester occupied the blood-red velvet chair with equal composure, though the aristocratic mask she'd worn for twenty years had developed hairline cracks. The steel-blue eyes that typically assessed every situation for tactical advantage now reflected something softer—not warmth, precisely, but the exhausted peace that followed confessions too long withheld. Her silver hair remained immaculately styled, but her fingers betrayed her with small movements against the silk of her scarf, a nervous habit Morticia hadn't witnessed since they were girls sharing secrets in their mother's garden.

The afternoon light had shifted during their conversation, painting the parlor in deeper shades of amber and shadow. Their teacups sat abandoned on the obsidian coffee table between them, contents gone cold hours ago, silent witnesses to words that had taken decades to speak aloud. The very air felt different—lighter somehow, as if the cottage itself had exhaled accumulated resentment and guilt.

"Twenty-three years," Hester said quietly. "I told myself it was necessary. That institutional care would stabilize her where family love had failed."

Morticia's dark eyes remained fixed on the portrait above the mantel—one of Ophelia, painted during her final summer before Nevermore destroyed her. The girl in the painting possessed the same ethereal beauty that ran through the Frump bloodline, but her eyes held a weight that spoke of visions too heavy for young shoulders to bear.

"You believed you were protecting her from herself," Morticia replied, her tone carrying forgiveness that had been years in the making. "I believed I could save her through devotion. We were both children trying to hold back the tide."

Hester's composure wavered, revealing grief so profound it seemed to bend the light around her. "I chose institutional safety over family loyalty. You chose helpless love over practical intervention. Neither approach proved adequate."

"Perhaps there was no adequate approach." Morticia's fingers traced the pattern in her dark dress, seeking comfort in familiar textures. "Ophelia saw what she saw. The weight of that knowledge was hers to carry, not ours to manage."

The admission settled between them like a treaty signed after a war that had consumed too much for too long. Neither woman had been entirely right, neither entirely wrong. They had simply been daughters and mothers and sisters trying to navigate love in the presence of gifts that demanded prices they couldn't understand.

Outside, gravel crunched beneath measured footsteps. Both women straightened slightly, their hard-won peace requiring careful protection from the sharper edges of Wednesday's perpetual analysis. The cottage door opened with its familiar protest, followed by the sound of boots against hardwood floors.

In the parlor entrance appeared Wednesday, her dark eyes immediately cataloging the scene before her. She took in everything—from the cold teacups to Hester's uncharacteristic vulnerability to her mother's carefully controlled posture. Those penetrating eyes missed nothing, processed everything, and undoubtedly drew conclusions that would require careful management.

"Mother. Grandmama." Her voice was flat as her gaze darted to Morticia. "I wasn't aware we were expecting visitors."

Rising from her chair, Morticia crossed to Wednesday with the protective instincts that had shaped every maternal choice since her daughter's birth. She placed her hands on Wednesday's shoulders—a rare gesture of physical affection that spoke to the gravity of what needed to be discussed.

"Cara mía, your grandmother and I have been revisiting old wounds. Comparing our recollections of Ophelia's visions at Nevermore."

Wednesday's expression remained perfectly controlled, but Morticia caught the microscopic shift that suggested sharpened focus. "Has new information emerged regarding the vision?"

"Not quite." Morticia chose her words carefully. "As you now know, Ophelia had a vision of you and Enid decades prior to this year."

Hester joined Morticia, leaving the velvet chair behind. "Which is why we believe she deserves to know. That her sacrifice bore fruit. That the wolf lives and the raven endures."

"A séance," Morticia said, her voice carrying the weight of tradition and necessity. "To honor her vigil and grant her spirit the peace of knowing the prophecy was conquered."

Within the hour, the cottage had been transformed into something between a shrine and a conversation pit. Moving through the familiar ritual of preparation—death, after all, was simply another form of social gathering—Morticia arranged their space with meticulous care.

Three chairs formed a triangle around the round table, which now bore a collection of family heirlooms: Ophelia's silver mirror, its surface reflecting candlelight like trapped stars; a pressed violet from her final garden at home; and a lock of dark hair braided with threads of silver. She had retrieved these relics from the cedar chest in her bedroom, handling each with the reverence due to sacred objects.

"The lavender candles were her preference," Hester observed, settling into her designated chair. "She always claimed they helped thin the veil between worlds."

"I remember." With careful attention to symmetry, Morticia placed the final candle. "She would burn them in her room at Nevermore until the air grew thick as incense."

"Is there a prescribed methodology for supernatural communication, or are we improvising?" asked Wednesday, taking the third chair without ceremony.

"Family tradition dictates a combination of invitation and offering," Morticia replied, striking a match. The flame caught the wick immediately, casting dancing shadows across their faces. "We provide tokens of remembrance and speak her name with genuine intent."

Hester withdrew an obsidian rosary from her silk purse, the beads clicking softly as she arranged them on the table. "This belonged to my mother, and her mother before that. Ophelia wore it during her final vision at Nevermore."

"A connection anchored in blood and memory," Morticia murmured approvingly. She placed her own offering—a fountain pen with an onyx barrel that Ophelia had used for her poetry—beside the other items. The assembled collection created a small constellation of grief and love on the dark surface.

"Ophelia Frump," Hester spoke clearly into the candlelit air. "We call to you across the spaces between, bearing news of the vision that claimed your peace."

A familiar tingle swept across Morticia's skin—the shift in air pressure that preceded supernatural visitation. The candle flames stood straighter, burning with unusual steadiness.

"Sister mine," she continued, her tone gentle as a lullaby. "The raven girl you saw, the wolf you fought to save—they stand together still. Your sacrifice bore the fruit you dreamed."

The temperature dropped by degrees, and Wednesday's eyes tracked something moving at the edge of vision. The obsidian mirror caught and held a reflection that shouldn't exist—the suggestion of a woman's face, ethereal and familiar.

"The prophecy is spent. Your vigil can end." Hester said softly.

No response came, despite the perfect conditions for communion. Morticia waited, expecting the familiar tingle of otherworldly presence, the shift in temperature that marked successful contact. The candles burned with steady, unremarkable flames. The obsidian mirror reflected only their own faces, disappointingly corporeal.

"Ophelia," Hester called again. "We bring news of the wolf and raven. Your vigil can end."

The cottage remained stubbornly empty of spiritual presence. No ethereal whispers, no spectral manifestations, not even the subtle wrongness that usually preceded supernatural rejection. Just three women surrounding treasured keepsakes on a table.

With a slight tilt of her head, Wednesday observed, "It seems as if no one's home."

"That's impossible," Morticia murmured. In their family, spirits had opinions about everything, particularly unfinished business. The Addams and Frump lines had been conducting séances for centuries, and dead relatives were notoriously chatty when properly invited. "She should be here. She should want to know."

Hester's poise began to falter. "Perhaps we need stronger anchors. More personal effects." But her voice carried doubt that hadn't been there moments before.

They tried again, each woman calling Ophelia's name with increasing urgency. Morticia offered detailed descriptions of Wednesday's survival, of Enid's transformation, of the prophetic wolf living and breathing at Nevermore Academy. The candles wavered slightly in a draft that touched nothing else, then resumed their unwavering burn.

"This violates fundamental principles of supernatural contact," Wednesday observed. "Spirits don't simply ignore direct invitations, especially regarding matters of profound personal investment."

A cold sensation settled over them gradually, like frost creeping through stone. Morticia felt it first in her chest—a hollow feeling that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with impossibility. Ophelia had sacrificed her sanity to prevent the very catastrophe they were reporting as conquered. She should be desperate to know the outcome.

"Unless," Hester said slowly, the words dragging from her throat like reluctant confessions, "she isn't dead."

The cottage absorbed this possibility into its shadows without comment. Wednesday's dark eyes fixed on the obsidian mirror, which continued reflecting nothing but disappointment.

"She escaped from her institution over twenty years ago," Morticia said, but her voice carried the hollow ring of someone reciting facts that no longer felt factual. "When she escaped, we assumed... we never received an official report that she had died… but where would she have been all this time?"

"And now we know what happened to many outcast patients who mysteriously disappeared or died," Wednesday finished. "Perhaps Augustus Stonehurst wasn't the only one in the market for outcasts to experiment on."

The implications formed with brutal clarity. If Ophelia wasn't dead, if she was trapped somewhere in the network of institutions, if her silence came not from peaceful rest but from enforced containment—

"Twenty-three years," Hester whispered, the number carrying new weight. "If she's been alive all this time, if I abandoned a living daughter..."

Taking her mother's hand, Morticia offered comfort while her own world reshifted around this terrible possibility. The peace they'd struggled to achieve now felt fragile as spun glass, shadowed by questions that demanded answers none of them were prepared to seek.

The candles burned on, illuminating nothing but their own dawning recognition that some silences spoke louder than any ghost ever could.

Wednesday's boots clicked against Nevermore's cobblestones, each step an attempt to outpace the implications that had followed her from Rotwood Cottage. The possibility that Aunt Ophelia had spent twenty-three years trapped in some institutional nightmare twisted in her mind like a blade, demanding action she wasn't equipped to take. Failing to make contact during the séance felt like an accusation—another mystery demanding her attention when she could barely manage the ones already consuming her focus.

The campus courtyards held their usual late afternoon bustle, students clustering around the fountain in conversations that felt aggressively normal. Their casual laughter grated against her raw nerves, a reminder that the world continued its relentless forward momentum regardless of the revelations that had just shattered her understanding of family history.

"Wednesday."

The sound of Bruno's voice cut through her mental spiral. He emerged from behind one of the pillars that lined the main building's entrance, his usual easy confidence replaced by something more urgent. His positioning suggested he'd been waiting specifically for her return—a calculated interception rather than casual encounter.

She paused, dark eyes assessing his tense posture and the worry lines that creased his features. "Bruno."

"I need to talk to you about Enid."

The directness surprised her. Bruno typically approached conversations by wrapping concerns in gentle observations that avoided confrontation. This blunt urgency indicated desperation that had overcome his usual social grace.

"What about her?" Her voice carried the flat disinterest she reserved for topics she preferred to avoid.

"She won't answer my calls. Or my texts. Or anyone's texts, for that matter." He stepped closer, lowering his voice to ensure privacy. "I haven't seen her at meals, she's been skipping pack activities, and her professors are worried about her."

Her expression remained impassive, though something flickered behind her dark eyes. "Perhaps she requires solitude to process recent events. Trauma responses vary significantly among individuals."

"This isn't processing trauma." Frustration bled through his careful tone. "This is something else. She's disappearing, Wednesday. Pulling away from everyone who cares about her."

The accuracy of his observation struck deeper than she wanted to acknowledge. She'd noticed Enid's increasing withdrawal—the forced brightness that replaced genuine emotion, the way her roommate avoided eye contact during their stilted conversations, the careful distance she maintained even in their shared space.

"Have you considered directing your concern toward actually comforting your girlfriend rather than interrogating me about her emotional state?" The words emerged sharper than she'd intended, jealousy manifesting as disdain. "Romantic partners traditionally bear primary responsibility for such situations."

His expression shifted, confusion replacing worry. "My girlfriend?"

"Surely discretion isn't necessary at this point." Her tone grew colder. "Your mutual affection has been evident throughout recent events. I'm certain your presence would prove more therapeutic than discussing her with me."

"Wednesday, Enid and I aren't—" Bruno stopped abruptly, his eyes widening with understanding. "You think we're dating."

The flat statement hung between them like an accusation. A momentary crack appeared in her composed facade before she regained control.

"The evidence suggests obvious intimacy," she replied, though her voice had lost some of its sharp certainty. "Your protective positioning during Tyler's attacks, the comfortable familiarity of your interactions, her obvious trust in your judgment."

"That's friendship. Pack loyalty." His response carried gentle correction rather than mockery. "We broke things off last week."

Her eyes noticeably widened as her mind immediately began scrambling to recalibrate everything she'd believed about Enid's current situation. Something fundamental shifted inside her chest—not the sharp stab of solving a mystery, but the sickening vertigo of discovering she'd been operating from completely false premises.

"Last week," she repeated, her voice barely audible. The timeline crystallized with horrible clarity. Before Tyler's attack. Before the festival. Before everything had fallen apart.

"We had a conversation and realized we weren't right for each other," he explained, his tone measured but direct. "It was mutual. Honest. We're better as friends."

She began rapidly reprocessing every interaction she'd witnessed between them during recent events. The protective positioning she'd interpreted as romantic devotion—pack loyalty. The comfortable familiarity—established friendship rather than intimate partnership. The way Bruno had supported Enid through medical treatment and emotional crisis—concern for someone he cared about, not romantic obligation.

"She never mentioned..." Her words trailed off as the implications cascaded through her consciousness like dominoes falling in perfect sequence.

All the careful distance she'd maintained. The way she'd stepped back during conversations, avoiding anything that might intrude on Enid's relationship. The assumption that Enid had someone else to provide the emotional support Wednesday felt unqualified to offer. Every moment of deliberate withdrawal had been based on a foundation that had crumbled before she'd even begun building on it.

"When exactly did this conversation occur?"

"The day before the festival." Concern deepened in his expression as he watched realization dawn across her features. "Wait—she never told you?"

A sinking sensation filled her stomach as the timeline aligned. Enid had been navigating the most dangerous night of their lives while also processing the end of her romantic relationship. She'd faced Tyler's attack, the loss of her werewolf abilities, and the crushing weight of feeling powerless—all while Wednesday maintained careful emotional distance based on circumstances that no longer existed.

"I assumed you were providing appropriate support," she said, her voice hollow with growing horror at her miscalculation. "I believed my presence would be... redundant."

"Jesus, Wednesday." Running a hand through his hair, his own understanding shifted as pieces fell into place. "You've been avoiding her because you thought she was with me?"

The accusation in his tone was gentle but devastating. She had prided herself on observational accuracy, on reading situations. Instead, she'd missed something fundamental happening directly in front of her. Worse, her misunderstanding had caused her to abandon Enid when support was most needed.

"I thought—" she began, then stopped. There was no defense for this level of analytical failure.

"She's been falling apart for three days," he continued urgently. "She won't eat, she isn't sleeping, she won't talk to anyone. And you've been keeping your distance because you thought I was handling it?"

Her hands clenched at her sides as the full scope of her mistake became clear. Enid's forced cheerfulness, the way she'd deflected offers of comfort, the brittle quality that had replaced her usual warmth—none of it had been about trauma processing. It had been about drowning while everyone assumed she had a life preserver.

"She matters to you," he said quietly, and it wasn't a question.

The statement hung between them, carrying weight that she couldn't deflect with sarcasm or redirect through analysis. Her throat tightened as she processed the implications of everything she'd failed to provide while operating under false assumptions.

"That's irrelevant," she managed through gritted teeth.

"Is it?" He moved closer, his voice dropping to ensure privacy. "Because I know you matter to her too. More than she's been able to tell you."

The suggestion sent electricity through her nervous system, hope and terror colliding in ways that made coherent thought nearly impossible. But before she could fully process the implications, the weight of her recent failures crashed down with renewed force.

"Where would she go?" The question escaped before she could stop it, raw and unguarded in a way that made her want to retreat immediately.

His eyebrows lifted slightly at the naked desperation in her voice, but his expression remained carefully neutral. "I've already checked everywhere I could think of. The music room where she practices, the quad benches she likes for reading, even the lake."

"But she wasn't there."

"No. And I realized something while I was looking." Thoughtfulness tinged his voice, mixed with frustration. "She'd avoid all those places now. They're connected to me, to our friendship. If she's really trying to disappear..."

The implication hung between them. Enid wasn't just hiding—she was specifically avoiding anywhere someone might logically search for her. Which meant conventional approaches would fail entirely.

"You don't know where she'd go," she said, reality setting in.

"I thought I did." His admission carried its own weight of failure. "But the Enid who's hurting right now? She's not the same person who used to tell me about her favorite hiding spots."

Something shifted inside her chest, determination forming around a core of guilt that threatened to consume her entirely. Her mind began working through the problem with renewed focus, analytical processes kicking into overdrive.

Someone who wanted to disappear completely. Someone who felt abandoned by everyone who claimed to care. Someone whose usual bright spaces would feel like mockery in her current state.

"She wouldn't go somewhere obvious," she murmured, more to herself than to Bruno. "Somewhere isolated. Private. Where she could..."

"Could what?"

Her throat tightened as she completed the thought. "Where she could fall apart without witnesses."

The words emerged barely above a whisper, carrying implications that made both of them freeze. She had always assumed Enid's emotional transparency meant she processed everything openly, but perhaps that brightness had been performance as much as personality.

"I don't know how to..." The admission tasted like poison. "I don't provide comfort. I analyze problems and eliminate obstacles. I don't know how to help someone… emotionally."

He studied her face, something shifting in his expression as he registered the cost of her confession. "Maybe that's not what she needs right now."

"Then what does she need?"

"Someone who won't try to fix her." His voice was quiet. "Someone who'll just... be there. Who won't make her feel like she has to pretend to be okay."

Everything she'd witnessed over the past three days suddenly recontextualized itself.

"I have to find her." The words emerged with desperation, her usual controlled tone completely abandoned.

"Wednesday." His voice was gentle. "I think you're the only person who can reach her right now. She trusts you in ways she doesn't trust anyone else."

The responsibility settled around her like armor, heavy but necessary. Her mind began working through possible places someone might go when they wanted the world to forget they existed.

"If you find her," he continued quietly, "don't try to make her feel better. Just... stay. Let her know she doesn't have to be alone."

With a sharp, decisive nod, she was already moving before she fully registered it, purpose driving her forward. Behind her, she heard Bruno call her name softly, but she didn't turn back.

Somewhere, Enid was breaking apart in private. And Wednesday had three days of abandoned friendship to remedy before it was too late.

Enid's fingers trembled against the doorknob as she steeled herself for another performance. The familiar ritual had become second nature—shoulders back, smile ready, voice pitched to convince herself as much as Wednesday that everything was fine. Another day of hiding in forgotten corners of campus, another evening of pretending she was healing instead of hollowing out from the inside.

The door opened to reveal their room bathed in the soft glow of her fairy lights, exactly as she'd left it that morning. But Wednesday's desk sat empty, her chair pushed back at an angle that suggested hasty departure rather than methodical organization.

Relief flooded through Enid's chest so powerfully that her knees nearly buckled. No performance required. No careful deflection of Wednesday's perceptive gaze. No need to manufacture brightness when every breath felt like drowning.

But on the heels of relief came something worse—a devastating loneliness that made the empty space feel vast and echoing. The absence of Wednesday's steady presence, the silence where typing should have been, the lack of her roommate's controlled breathing creating its familiar rhythm against the night.

Enid closed the door and leaned against it, her mask finally allowed to slip in the privacy of solitude. Her gaze drifted across the room's familiar divide, taking in details that spoke of Wednesday's own distress.

Papers scattered across the usually pristine desk surface. Evidence of a hasty departure. Of someone whose legendary composure had cracked enough to leave disorder in her wake.

Has she been looking for me?

Wednesday never left their room in disarray unless something had demanded her immediate attention. How many hours had she spent searching? How much energy had Enid's disappearing act cost the person she was supposed to be protecting?

Moving across their shared space felt like crossing a chasm. Her colorful bedspread welcomed her with its familiar softness, but even that small comfort felt undeserved. She settled against her pillows, drawing her knees up to her chest while staring at Wednesday's empty chair.

Her presence had become so fundamental to this space that its absence felt like oxygen being sucked from the air.

Enid had been crying for three days straight, her body wrung dry by grief and fear and the terrible certainty that she'd become everything she'd fought her entire life to avoid being. But now, surrounded by the evidence of Wednesday's concern, she found herself beyond tears entirely. Just hollow. Empty. A shell wearing her face while everything that had once made her vibrant leaked away drop by drop.

The spider-web window caught moonlight, casting familiar patterns across walls that had witnessed the highest highs and lowest lows of their friendship. This room had been their home, the place where Wednesday's darkness and her brightness had somehow found balance.

Now it felt like a museum. A monument to a friendship she'd been systematically destroying through her own inability to accept help.

The door opened behind her, boots clicking against the floor. Enid didn't turn, couldn't summon the energy for another performance when she felt this raw and exposed.

"You're back," Wednesday's voice emerged carefully neutral, though something underneath carried strain that made Enid's chest tighten.

Thing scuttled into view, his usual energetic movements subdued as he took in the scene. Even he seemed to understand the gravity of whatever conversation was about to unfold.

Enid forced her shoulders to straighten, her mouth to curve upward in the brittle smile that had become her default expression. "Hey! Yeah, just got back from... you know, around campus. How was your day?"

She couldn't meet Wednesday's gaze directly, afraid of what those penetrating eyes might see if she looked too long.

"Thing," Wednesday said quietly, her voice carrying a request rather than a command. "Could you give us some privacy?"

The directness caught Enid off guard. No excuse about needing to organize files or check on something elsewhere. Just a straightforward acknowledgment that what was about to happen required solitude.

Thing paused, his posture shifting as he registered the weight in Wednesday's tone. He drummed once against the floor—a question mark made manifest—but Wednesday's steady gaze held firm. After a moment, he scuttled toward the door with obvious reluctance, understanding but not liking the dismissal.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving them alone in the fairy-light glow with nothing but the truth hanging between them like a blade.

Wednesday moved deeper into the room with deliberate steps, her boots crossing the invisible line that usually divided their territories. She paused beside Enid's desk, fingers trailing across the rainbow-colored surface in a gesture that felt significant despite its simplicity.

"I spoke with Bruno today."

Her mask shattered completely, panic flooding her system as her mind raced through every possible conversation they might have had. What had Bruno told her? How much did Wednesday know about the messy end of their relationship, about her confused feelings, about the truth she'd been hiding?

"He's worried about you," Wednesday continued, her voice carrying none of the sharp analysis Enid had braced herself for. "As am I."

Enid's throat tightened as she struggled to maintain her performance. "I told you, I'm fine! Bruno worries too much, you know how he gets. Everything's perfectly—"

"Enid." The single word cut through her spiral. "Stop."

Something in Wednesday's tone made Enid's defenses waver. This wasn't the clinical assessment she'd expected, the list of behavioral observations that would dissect her emotional state like a specimen under glass. This was something gentler, more careful—as if Wednesday understood how fragile she'd become.

"He mentioned that you haven't been responding to messages. That you've been avoiding meals and... disappearing."

The careful way Wednesday approached felt like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal. Enid had spent three days preparing for interrogation, for her roommate's trademark bluntness that would strip away pretense and demand truth. Instead, she found herself facing unexpected tenderness that made her walls feel thinner, more vulnerable.

"I've been eating," Enid protested weakly, though the lie tasted hollow. "And sleeping. I'm just... processing everything that happened."

Wednesday studied her face with the intensity Enid had grown to expect, but without the cold detachment that usually accompanied such scrutiny. "This isn't processing."

"It is! I'm just—"

"You're disappearing." The words emerged quietly. "Severing connections with everyone who cares about you. That's not healing."

Enid felt her chest tighten as Wednesday's assessment hit too close to the truth she'd been trying to bury.

"You don't understand what it's like," she said, desperation making her voice crack. "I can't protect anyone anymore. My powers are gone, Wednesday. Gone. I'm just some ordinary human girl who'll get in the way when something bad happens."

Wednesday took another step closer, now near the edge of Enid's colorful bedding. "And?"

The question caught Enid off guard. She'd expected agreement, maybe tactical analysis about team composition without supernatural abilities. Not this simple prompt for her to continue.

"And I'm useless," Enid finished, her voice breaking on the admission. "I have nightmares every night about Tyler coming back. About him throwing you through that window again, except this time I can't run fast enough to catch you because my legs won't work right. I try to run but it's like moving through water, and I can see you falling and there's nothing I can do."

Wednesday's expression remained carefully neutral, but she took another small step closer. "Dreams often distort reality—"

"No!" The word exploded from Enid's chest. "You don't understand. In the dreams, Tyler finds us again and I try to fight him but my claws won't come. I'm just standing there with normal human hands while he tears you apart, and I can't do anything except watch."

Her breathing quickened as the nightmare images flooded back—Wednesday's blood, Tyler's laughter, her own devastating helplessness played out in excruciating detail night after night. The words tumbled out faster now, three days of suppressed terror spilling over like a dam bursting.

"I can't even remember most of what happened when he drugged me. I just remember his face when he realized I was completely helpless, and the way he looked at me like I was nothing." Her hands shook as she pressed them against her temples. "He just led me away from the festival like I was a lost puppy, and I couldn't think straight or fight back or do anything except follow him into the woods."

Wednesday's jaw tightened. "You survived. That's not nothing."

"I survived because other people saved me!" Enid's voice cracked. "Ajax almost died protecting us. Bruno got hurt fighting Tyler when I couldn't. You had to face Judi alone while I was unconscious in the cemetery being completely useless."

She pulled her knees tighter against her chest, making herself smaller as guilt crashed over her in waves. The fairy lights cast gentle shadows across her tear-streaked face, but their warmth felt mocking against the cold certainty that had taken root in her chest.

"I promised to stand by your side," she whispered. "I swore we'd face whatever came together. But when it mattered, I was unconscious or bleeding or running away while everyone else had to clean up the mess."

"Enid—"

"I'm supposed to protect you!" The words tore from her throat raw and desperate. "That's what I'm supposed to do. That's who I'm supposed to be. But I can't protect anyone when I don't have my powers. I'm just another person you have to worry about, another weakness someone like Tyler can use against you."

Wednesday moved closer, now near enough that Enid could see concern flickering behind her controlled expression. "Your worth isn't contingent on—"

"Yes, it is!" Enid's voice rose to something almost like a wail. "Don't you see? Without my wolf, I'm helpless—scared and making bad decisions and needing rescuing. I'm the weak link that puts everyone else in danger."

Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps as panic clawed at her chest. Three days of suppressed terror had built into something too large to contain, and now it poured out in words that felt like bleeding.

"Everyone keeps telling me my powers will come back, but what if they don't? What if I'm stuck like this forever? What if next time something happens to you and I'm still just... human?" Her voice broke completely. "I don't want to lose you because I wasn't strong enough to protect you."

The admission hung in the air between them, raw and desperate. Wednesday's carefully controlled composure flickered for just an instant, something deeper moving behind her mask.

"I can't watch you get hurt because I failed," Enid whispered, the words carrying the weight of everything she couldn't say. "I can't be the reason something happens to you."

Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms as desperation made her next words tumble out without filter. "Because you're everything that matters and I—"

She cut herself off before the rest could spill out. Her eyes widened as she realized how close she'd come to crossing a line she couldn't uncross, to admitting feelings that would change everything between them.

The unfinished sentence hung in the moonlit space, both of them acutely aware of what she'd nearly said. Enid's face flushed with panic and embarrassment, her carefully guarded secret now visible in the gap between what she'd spoken and what she'd left unsaid.

Wednesday held her gaze across the small distance that separated them, and for a moment neither breathed, both suspended in the terrible weight of truth that demanded acknowledgment.

But Wednesday didn't allow the silence to stretch, didn't permit Enid to retreat behind walls that had already proven inadequate.

"Why?" she asked, her voice firm. "Why does protecting me specifically matter so much to you?"

Enid's breathing hitched as she recognized the trap—not malicious, but inescapable nonetheless. Wednesday watched her with unwavering focus, waiting for an answer that would either complete the truth or shatter what remained of Enid's defenses entirely.

"I can't," Enid whispered, shaking her head frantically. "Wednesday, please don't make me—"

"Tell me." The words emerged softer than usual, but with the absolute certainty that retreating was no longer an option. "You were saying I'm everything that matters, and you what?"

Her chest felt tight, panic clawing at her throat as she stared into eyes that had always seen too much, understood too clearly.

"You'll hate me," she breathed.

"I won't."

The simple certainty in Wednesday's voice broke something fundamental inside Enid's chest. Three days of isolation, months of hidden feelings, years of fear about being too much or not enough—all of it collapsed at once like a dam bursting under impossible pressure.

"Because I'm in love with you!" The words tore from her throat in a desperate rush, raw and unfiltered. "I've been in love with you for months and that's why losing my powers feels like losing everything!"

Wednesday went utterly still, her dark eyes widening slightly as Enid's confession hit the air between them.

"I tried to make it go away," Enid continued, the words tumbling out faster now that the floodgates had opened. "I dated Bruno hoping it would fix whatever was broken in me, hoping I could feel for him what I felt for you. But I couldn't. Every time he kissed me, I wished it was you. Every time he held my hand, I imagined yours instead."

Her hands shook as she pressed them against her face, unable to stop the desperate flow of truth. "I thought if I could just be normal, if I could want someone safe and warm and uncomplicated, maybe I could stop dreaming about your eyes and sharp words and the way you move through the world like you own it."

Wednesday's breathing had grown carefully controlled, each inhale and exhale measured as she processed revelations that rewrote everything she thought she understood about their dynamic.

"But I couldn't," Enid whispered, her voice breaking. "I couldn't stop loving you, even when I knew it was hopeless. Even when I knew you'd never feel the same way about someone like me."

The words hung in the moonlit air like accusations against herself. Enid waited for Wednesday's retreat, for the careful distance that would reshape their friendship into something manageable and safe.

Instead, Wednesday remained motionless, her gaze never wavering from Enid's tear-streaked face.

"And my powers," Enid continued, desperate to fill the silence that felt like judgment. "Without them, I'm just some ordinary girl who fell in love with someone extraordinary. I can't protect you or stand beside you or be anything except another person you have to worry about when things get dangerous."

Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I've been terrified that you'll realize I'm not worth the trouble anymore. That you'll see how useless I really am and decide our friendship was just... convenient when I had something useful to offer."

The confession left her hollow, emptied of everything she'd been carrying alone. Enid stared at her hands, unable to bear seeing disappointment or pity in Wednesday's expression.

"I just ruined everything, didn't I?" Enid whispered, fresh tears blurring her vision.

The silence stretched until Enid was certain she had her answer. Wednesday was processing, calculating how to extract herself from this mess with minimal damage to both their lives.

"You haven't ruined anything."

The words emerged quietly, but with absolute conviction. Enid's head snapped up to find Wednesday still watching her intently.

Then Wednesday moved.

She settled carefully on the edge of Enid's rainbow bedding, her black outfit stark against the cheerful fabric. The gesture felt like a declaration, a willingness to enter Enid's world despite the discomfort it might cause.

"Enid," Wednesday said, her voice carrying uncharacteristic hesitation. "You're the only person who's ever mattered this much."

The admission emerged halting, as if each word required conscious effort to voice. Wednesday's hands lay motionless in her lap, but Enid caught the subtle tremor that betrayed the cost of such vulnerability.

"The only person whose absence creates genuine distress," Wednesday continued. "When Tyler threw me through that window, when I thought I might die, you were the only one I saw. The only loss that felt unacceptable."

Enid's breath caught in her throat as she processed the implications of Wednesday's carefully chosen words. Not 'I love you'—that wasn't Wednesday's language—but something deeper, more specific to who she was.

"You matter," Wednesday said, meeting Enid's gaze directly. "Not because of your abilities. You matter because you're you."

Relief flooded through her so powerfully that her vision blurred, tears spilling over despite her attempts to maintain some shred of composure.

"Wednesday," she breathed, reaching toward her roommate with trembling fingers.

Wednesday didn't retreat when Enid's hand found hers, didn't flinch away from contact that would have been impossible weeks ago. Instead, she allowed their fingers to intertwine, her pale skin cold but steady against Enid's warmth.

"I don't know how to do this," Wednesday admitted, her voice dropping low. "Emotional territory isn't my area of expertise."

Enid laughed through her tears, the sound cracked but genuine. "We'll figure it out together."

The promise felt enormous, laden with possibilities neither had dared acknowledge before this moment. Wednesday's thumb traced across Enid's knuckles in a gesture so tender it made fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

"I'm so scared," Enid whispered, the admission torn from someplace deep and desperate. "About my powers, about not being enough, about losing you."

Wednesday's arms came around her then—awkward but absolutely sincere, crossing the final boundary that had kept them separated. Enid melted into the embrace, pressing her face against Wednesday's shoulder as relief and exhaustion and overwhelming gratitude crashed through her system in waves.

"You're not going to lose me," Wednesday said, her voice muffled against Enid's hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

The tears came harder now—not the hollow despair that had consumed her for days, but something cleaner, more healing. Months of hidden feelings, weeks of fear, days of isolation all poured out against Wednesday's steady presence.

"We'll face whatever comes next," Wednesday murmured, her arms tightening slightly. "Your powers, Judi, all of it. Together."

Enid cried until exhaustion finally began claiming the edges of her consciousness, her body relaxing for the first time in days. Wednesday's heartbeat provided steady rhythm against her ear, proof that this wasn't another cruel dream.

"Together," Enid murmured, the word soft with approaching sleep.

Wednesday's response was barely audible, but Enid caught it as darkness pulled her toward rest she desperately needed: "Together."

In the fairy-light glow of their shared room, they held each other against uncertainties that felt smaller now, less insurmountable when faced as a team rather than carried alone.