Chapter Text
Agatha’s boots hit the road with a hollow, rhythmic thud, the sound strangely out of sync with the frantic beating of her heart. Each step should have been a steadying force, something to ground her in the reality of the Witches’ Road, but tonight, it did nothing to quiet the rising storm inside her. The house loomed in the distance, barely a shadow against the darkened horizon. Agatha’s stomach twisted in knots, and she had to clench her fists just to keep herself steady.
It wasn’t the second trial that stirred this unease in her bones. It wasn’t the test of magic that awaited them within those cursed walls.
The Green Witch.
Rio.
Her ex-wife, though that title felt like a lie. It had been over two centuries since they had cast the bonding sell, a ritual that had entwined their souls far deeper than any mortal vow.
Irreversible.
Unbreakable.
There was no escaping it.
No escaping her.
She had spent years pretending that her life could move forward, that she could live without the constant weight of Rio’s presence dragging her back to the past. That she could somehow ignore the chain that still connected them—forever. But she couldn’t. Every step on the Witches’ Road tonight felt like it was dragging her toward that same suffocating truth.
And every step felt like a plunge back into the void of their shared pain.
The loss.
It was always that loss that hung between them like a ghost that refused to be exorcised. Their love had once been dark and electric, a storm that raged between them, full of passion and power. They had pushed each other, challenged each other, sometimes with cruel edges that hurt more than they healed—but it had worked. It had thrived, fed by the same magic that pulsed in their veins, bound by the kind of love that defied reason or explanation.
Until that night. Until the loss ripped it all apart. It had torn through them, leaving jagged, bleeding wounds that neither magic nor time could ever heal. Agatha could still feel it, the sharp claws of grief that dug into her every time she thought about it. Every time she saw Rio’s face, that same void opened up inside her, swallowing everything good they’d once had.
No love could survive what they had been through. What they had lost.
The only thing that thrived in the aftermath was cruelty. Cruelty and bitterness that ate away at them both until there was nothing left but the bonding spell itself, the one thing they couldn’t sever, no matter how desperately Agatha tried. Leaving had been the only way Agatha could survive it. The only way to keep from drowning in the endless pain that tied them together.
But survival didn’t mean healing.
Agatha had spent years convincing herself she was free of Rio, that she could live her life without her shadow darkening every corner of it. But the moment Rio had joined the Witches’ Road, all those carefully built walls crumbled, and Agatha was right back where she started—haunted by the ghost of what they had been. Haunted by the loss they had never stopped feeling.
Lost in her thoughts, Agatha didn’t notice they had reached the house until she walked straight into Alice’s back, jolting her back to the present with a start. Her breath caught in her throat.
Alice turned, concern etched into her face. "Agatha… are you alright?"
Agatha didn’t answer. She didn’t apologize either—it wasn’t in her nature. Instead, she stared past Alice at the house that stood before them, its dark silhouette rising like a monument to her worst memories.
Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
The black hand-felled wood that made up its structure seemed more sinister now, but Agatha knew it well. Too well. A lone rose bush stood in the corner, its blood-red petals the only spot of color in the oppressive gloom. The two rocking chairs on the porch were frozen in time, untouched by the wind that howled through the trees. And the door—Agatha’s breath hitched at the sight of it—the bronze doorhandle, with a raven carved into the knob, its wings forever poised for flight.
It was their house.
The house Rio had built for them. The house that was supposed to be their home.
Agatha could still remember the day Rio had shown it to her. The shock. The disbelief. They had been wandering for centuries, two witches without a place to call their own, and Agatha had joked about settling down, how they weren’t getting any younger despite Rio’s immortality and a witches long life span. It was a careless comment, thrown into the air without thought, but Rio had latched onto it.
She had always listened too closely.
Agatha remembered the way Rio had led her through the dense forest, the trees towering like sentinels around them, the path twisting and turning in an endless maze on the outskirts of Salem. They had walked in silence, but Agatha had felt the weight of something shifting, something building in Rio’s silence. Finally, they reached this very spot. Rio's arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her close, her breath warm against Agatha’s ear.
"Welcome home, baby," Rio had whispered, her voice a soft promise that sent shivers down Agatha’s spine.
It had been one of the happiest day of Agatha’s long, long life.
They had built a life together there, in that house. The years they spent within those walls had been filled with laughter and warmth, the kind of peace Agatha had never known. It had been the one place in the world where she felt safe. Where she felt whole.
But now… now it stood as a monument to her nightmares.
Agatha’s fingers trembled at her sides as she stared up at the house, memories flooding back so vividly she could almost hear Rio’s laughter echoing through the air, almost feel her hands pulling her into the warmth of their home. But that warmth was long gone, replaced by the icy grip of grief that had never let go.
The house had been their haven, their sanctuary, but after the loss—after that night—it had become something else.
A tomb.
"Agatha?" Alice’s voice cut through the fog, but it was distant, muted. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye—Jen, Lillia, and Teen exchanging worried glances, their faces tight with concern. They could see it—the way Agatha stood frozen, trapped in the past. But she couldn’t respond. She was stuck.
Teen took a hesitant step forward, eyes scanning the darkness as if searching for something, anything, that had her reacting this way.
"What is it, Agatha?" his voice was gentle but edged with worry. He looked around, uncertain. "What’s wrong?"
Agatha tried to speak, her mouth opening, but no words came. Just a choked sound, a strangled gasp, as if her vocal cords had twisted around the demons she had buried long ago, refusing to let them free. She was drowning, suffocated by memories she had no control over, and no way to stop.
Then she heard it.
Laughter.
A small, childlike giggle that cut through the stillness of the night. Agatha’s heart lurched, her pulse spiking. It wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. It was a sound she had convinced herself she could still hear on the wind, haunting her wherever she went. A phantom echo of a life that was lost. But the sound wasn’t coming from her mind or the recesses of her memory. It was coming from the house.
It was real.
Alive.
A sharp pang of hope tore through her chest, so violent it hurt more than any wound she had ever experienced. Agatha’s breath hitched as her feet moved before her mind could catch up, propelling her forward toward the house, the place she had once sworn she would never return to.
"Agatha, don’t!" Rio’s voice rang out behind her, sharp with panic, edged with desperation. Agatha could hear it—Rio’s fear. The fear she had learned to mask so well over the centuries, now laid bare.
But Agatha couldn’t stop.
She burst forward, her legs carrying her faster than she had ever run in her long life. She had run for her life before, countless times, through battles and trials, through flames and chaos. But this—this was different. She wasn’t running from death now. She was running toward life.
Her boots slammed against the porch, the boards creaking beneath her weight as she charged up the steps. She threw herself at the door, the desperation building inside her coming out in a single, breathless word.
"Nicky!" she cried, the name tearing out of her like a scream as she barreled into the house.
The space around her was exactly as she remembered it, frozen in time like a museum exhibit, all relics of the 18th century. The polished wooden furniture, the hand-stitched curtains, the iron stove in the corner of the kitchen. Every detail was as vivid as the day they’d left it behind, yet Agatha saw none of it. She didn’t even notice her own clothes shifting, her modern attire melting away into the rich, deep purple of an era-appropriate dress, the fabric heavy against her skin. The style—the feel—was lost on her.
Her eyes were frantic, darting around the room, searching for him.
She had heard him. She knew he was here.
"Agatha!" Teen’s voice cut through the air as he stepped in front of her, his hand gripping her arm. She blinked at him, momentarily dazed, seeing him now in symbol-covered overalls, a wide-brimmed hat perched on his head, an image from the past. He looked just as out of place as she felt. "What is this place? What are you doing?"
She barely registered his words. Her hands shoved him aside with surprising strength, her heart hammering in her chest as she pressed forward.
"Nicky!" she called again, rushing toward the kitchen.
Her breath caught when she saw it—the table, set for three. Three plates. Three chairs. Empty.
Agatha's vision blurred.
No, no, he’s here. He has to be here.
"Who’s Nicky?" Jen’s voice echoed distantly, confusion lacing her tone, but Agatha ignored her. She moved like a woman possessed, pushing past them all, barreling into Alice and Lillia as they made the unfortunate mistake of standing in front of a door.
His door.
She barely noticed them stumble out of the way as she ripped the door open, her heart leaping into her throat.
The room was still. Quiet.
Empty.
But there it was—his bed. Small, neatly made, with a few well-worn books stacked on the nightstand. A small black teddy bear lay in the center, his bear. The one with the chewed ear, the one Nicholas had clutched every night as he slept.
Agatha's knees buckled, the strength slipping from her body like sand through her fingers. She staggered forward, each step heavy, her legs threatening to give way beneath her. Her trembling fingers hovered above the small, black teddy bear, before they brushed against the worn fur, soft in some places, stiff and crusted at the ear—just as she remembered. The same ear Nicholas had chewed on every night until he fell asleep. The sensation of it beneath her fingertips was like a knife twisting in her chest.
Then, suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the wooden floor behind her, followed by that laughter again—bright and childlike, full of life.
"Nicholas Vidal, get back here now!" The voice rang out, stern yet playful. Agatha froze. It was her voice, unmistakable, but it hadn’t come from her lips. She turned sharply, eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest.
There, standing in the doorway, were the others—Teen, Alice, Jen, and Lillia—all watching with wide, disbelieving eyes. But beyond them, beyond the threshold, that laughter—his laughter—grew louder, turning into an uncontrollable squeal.
Agatha moved before she could think, rushing past them, her pulse racing, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps as she rounded the corner. And then she stopped.
She froze, her whole world grinding to a halt as she saw herself—her, but not her. So carefree. So full of life. Smiling in a way Agatha hadn’t in centuries. The version of herself she barely recognized, but it was undeniably her.
And in her arms was a squealing five-year-old Nicholas, wriggling and kicking as he laughed, his black hair wild, his blue eyes sparkling with joy. His small frame fit perfectly in her arms as she tickled him, his laughter filling the space, pure and unburdened.
"Mommy, stop!" Nicholas giggled, squirming in her grasp.
"Are you going to eat your vegetables?" the other Agatha teased, pausing her tickling to look down at him with that familiar challenging look.
Nicholas froze, still caught in her arms, and Agatha’s breath hitched painfully. Her heart nearly shattered right there because she had convinced herself she had memorized every detail of him—every feature etched into her soul like a sacred carving. She had grown him, nurtured him, shaped his very being inside her for nine months. She had sworn she could never forget him, not a single inch of him. But standing here now, watching him in the flesh, alive and laughing—she realized her memory had blurred over time, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.
The freckle on his jaw.
The way his eyes lightened in the sun.
The way his nose scrunched up in concentration when he was deep in thought.
Agatha had forgotten those precious, delicate details, the ones that made him uniquely her son. Seeing them now—seeing him now—was like losing him all over again. Sickness had taken him from her the first time, and now time had stolen him once more, erasing the fine lines of his face from her memory, until only shadows remained.
She couldn’t breathe.
Her chest constricted as the ache of a thousand heartbreaks crashed over her, and her knees gave way, sending her stumbling against the wall. She pressed a hand to her heart, as if she could hold it together, but it was no use. Watching them—herself and Nicholas—was a brutal reminder of everything she had lost. Of a life she could never get back.
"Nicky..." she whispered, the word strangled, caught in the tangle of her grief.
In that moment, Nicholas looked up at the other Agatha, his small shoulders slumping as he finally gave in.
"Okay, Mommy…I will eat them," he said, his voice soft with reluctance. The other Agatha set him down, a triumphant grin on her face as she watched him shuffle toward the kitchen table.
Agatha pressed herself off the wall, legs unsteady but moving her forward. Her gaze never wavered from Nicholas as he made his way to the chair, to the dining table that had suddenly filled with food. She heard the others murmuring behind her, but their voices were distant, muffled by the pounding in her ears.
“This is clearly Agatha’s trial,” Jen whispered.
"What is this place? Who is that boy? Did Agatha have a son?" Alice asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
Agatha ignored them, her eyes locked on Nicky as he sat down. His nose scrunched up in distaste as he stared at his plate, now reduced to just the vegetables. He shot a pleading glance at the other Agatha, who leaned casually against the countertop, arms crossed, one brow raised in challenge. It was a look she remembered well—daring him to argue his way out of it.
Nicholas sighed again, shoulders dropping in defeat, and picked up his fork, spearing a piece of squash. Agatha watched as he reluctantly put it in his mouth, grimacing as he chewed.
"Oh, it’s not that bad!" her other-self teased, clearly amused by his struggle.
It became painfully evident that neither the herself nor Nicholas knew they were there. They were locked in this memory, moving through it as though the present didn’t exist, and Agatha and her companions were nothing but silent spectators.
So it didn’t surprise her when she knelt beside Nicholas, and he didn’t glance her way. He was too focused on grimacing through another bite, unaware of her presence, unaware of the weight of her grief pressing down on the moment.
Agatha’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered just above his hair. She couldn’t help herself. The need to touch him, to run her hands through those soft, velvet locks—the way she had since he was a baby—was overwhelming.
Just one touch.
But as her hand moved through him, passing through the space where his head should have been, her heart shattered all over again.
He wasn’t real.
The sob that ripped from her chest was raw, soaked in grief. It echoed in the silent kitchen, a sound so full of loss that it seemed to vibrate through her bones. Tears blurred her vision as she knelt there, watching Nicholas, knowing she could never hold him again, never feel the warmth of his little body against hers.
He put the last bite in his mouth, chewing with an exaggerated grimace before pushing his plate away dramatically.
"Done," he declared, drawing out the word as though he had barely survived the ordeal.
The other Agatha scoffed, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she stepped forward to collect his plate.
“Vegetables are good for you, Nicholas,” she reminded him with a familiar warmth. “How else are you going to get big and strong?”
Nicholas pursed his lips, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as if considering her words. His face lit up with a flash of mischievous logic.
“Mama doesn’t eat her vegetables, and she’s strong,” he countered, his voice filled with certainty, like it was an undeniable fact.
The other Agatha froze for a moment, then let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes at the mention of his other mother.
"Oh, don’t even get me started on your mama," she muttered, shaking her head as she set the plate in the sink. There was a tenderness in her tone, a warmth that lingered in the memory like the scent of a fire long burned out.
“When is Mama coming home?” Nicholas asked, his voice filled with innocent pleading, his wide eyes looking to her for reassurance.
Agatha—the other Agatha—didn’t turn from the sink, her back stiffening ever so slightly.
“She should be home soon—” she began, but the words hung in the air, unfinished.
A creak echoed through the house, the familiar sound of a foot stepping on the one loose floorboard. It cut through the memory like a knife. Agatha, and the others, turned toward the sound in unison.
There, on the porch, stood Rio.
Her already pale skin was nearly ashen, her eyes wide, locked onto Nicholas. But it wasn’t hope that glimmered in her gaze—it was fear.
Rio was always the unshakable one, formidable in every way. As the embodiment of Death itself, there was nothing in this world or the next that could frighten her. At least, not until Nicholas had gotten sick. Agatha remembered the terror then—how Rio had hovered her hands over their son’s small chest, her magic coursing through his body, searching desperately for a cause, a solution, something. But when Rio had ripped her hands away, her face had worn the same expression she had now—utter helplessness.
Agatha’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to say. If Rio was feeling even a fraction of the anguish that was tearing through Agatha right now, then she was breaking apart inside. But Agatha knew better—Rio wasn’t feeling a sliver. She was feeling the whole stake, like it was driving through her heart, piercing every part of her.
She opened her mouth, desperate to say something, anything, to cut through the silence. But before she could find her voice, Nicholas moved.
“Mama!” he cried, his voice bright with joy, as he leapt from his chair and ran straight through her.
She didn’t even feel him. His body passed through her like she was nothing but air, like a ghost, as he darted across the room toward the door. The others stepped aside, watching in silence as Nicholas skidded to a stop just before crossing the threshold, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Mama! I missed you! Come in! Come in!” he called, bouncing on the balls of his feet, barely containing his energy.
Rio stood frozen on the porch, her body trembling, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Agatha watched, her heart splintering, as Rio blinked slowly, her lips parting in a shaky breath. A single tear slipped from her eyes, tracing a slow path down her pale cheek. Her gaze never left Nicholas, as though she was seeing him for the first time—alive, full of life—but knowing the truth beneath the illusion.
Agatha could see it in her eyes—the way Rio’s entire body shook, like she was barely holding herself together. Like if she let go for even a second, she would crumble. Then, with a shuddering breath, Rio lifted her gaze from Nicholas, looking across the room, her eyes locking onto Agatha’s.
Their eyes met, and in that instant, everything else vanished. The past, the memory, the others—it all dissolved, leaving only the unbearable weight of their shared grief. It hung between them like a shadow, heavy and suffocating, a reminder of the life they had once built and the unimaginable loss they now carried.
Nicholas continued to bounce at the doorway, his small feet barely touching the floor, his face beaming with excitement. He was waiting. Begging.
“Mama! Come in!” he called again, his voice so full of hope it twisted something deep inside Agatha.
And then it hit her—he could see her.
Nicholas wasn’t just locked in the memory. His gaze, bright and pleading, was fixed on her, not just the other Agatha. He wasn’t a ghostly fragment of the past. He was looking at her, waiting for her.
A cold realization settled over her like ice water dripping down her spine.
This wasn’t her trial.
It was Rio’s.