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Chapter Text

In the city of Nevermore — an enclave as grim as its name promised, where society’s outcasts found refuge and reasons to sharpen their own claws — two families ruled with the refinement of those who hide a dagger beneath their coat.

The Addamses and the Sinclairs.

The Addams family were aristocrats, experts at turning decay into art, with a nearly romantic appreciation for anything that exuded mold, mystery, and morbidity. The Sinclairs, on the other hand — of lupine blood and traditions as ancient as the forests themselves — had a habit of settling disagreements with their own hands… or their teeth, depending on the moon’s mood.

Together, they were like wine and gasoline: distinct, intense, and dangerously combustible.

For decades, those two houses maintained a cold war that made history’s bitterest feuds look like a cranky condominium meeting. Subtle sabotages, alliances severed with the elegance of a venom-laced note, and territorial disputes that would make Italian mobsters blush.

In Nevermore, it was practically law: where there was an Addams, a Sinclair should not be — unless they accepted the risk of leaving with fewer limbs than they arrived with.

But even the oldest grudges must pretend diplomacy once in a while. And in a rare moment of desperate pragmatism — or strategic madness — the patriarchs chose to seal peace with the oldest agreement known: a marriage. Not between themselves, of course; the world was not prepared for such a Shakespearean catastrophe.

The plan involved their heiresses.

Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair — one was eternal night; the other, midday sun.

Betrothed since childhood, they grew up like magnetic poles of the same charge: repelling each other with nearly poetic consistency. Love? Impossible. Friendship? An insult.

Between them existed only forced coexistence, stitched with convenience and knots tight enough to leave marks.

In an attempt to turn rivalry into tolerance — or at least prevent a homicide at the altar — the patriarchs decreed: one month under the same roof. A neutral mansion, far from Nevermore’s watchful bustle, was chosen as the stage for this unorthodox experiment — a “pre-nuptial retreat,” as they preferred to call it.

Raven and wolf would have thirty days to learn how to coexist.

Or, perhaps, to devour each other.

Meanwhile, Nevermore held its collective breath. Newspapers whispered scandalous headlines about the “wedding of the century,” and allies and enemies of both houses sharpened their knives — metaphorical or otherwise — awaiting the outcome.

Would this union be the prologue to a new era of peace among the outcasts… or the prelude to a bloody feast, complete with a blood-splattered bouquet?

+++

Enid Sinclair stepped out of the car like someone fleeing a burning building — or, more accurately, like someone escaping spontaneous combustion caused by a family argument reaching critical mass. The heel of her boot sank into the gravel of the mansion entrance with a dry crack, as if the earth itself were tired of that drama.

“Enid, please, try to see the bigger picture!” Murray Sinclair’s voice boomed behind her, deep and exasperated, as if he were the only rational being in a world full of hysterical teenagers.

She turned with the fury of a miniature hurricane, eyes flashing as though they might set the family car on fire.

“The bigger picture? You sold me like a premium cut of meat at the butcher shop of arranged marriages!”

Esther, immaculate as ever in her beige suit and polished-marble expression, sighed like someone who had lost her patience three generations ago.

“No one sold you, dear. It’s a strategic alliance. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I’m eighteen!” Enid shot back, arms crossed like fortress walls. “I’m old enough to know this is bullshit!”

Murray huffed — a sound halfway between a bear with sinus problems and a man with zero empathy.

“Where do you think peace between our families comes from? Hugs? This is politics, girl. And politics stinks.”

Enid rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own soul trying to escape. Politics. Always politics. For as long as she could remember, her fate had been sealed with a surname she could barely stand to pronounce.

Addams. Wednesday Addams.

Just thinking the name made her stomach twist. Not with disgust, of course. With… something else.
Something warmer. More inconvenient. Something she refused to name because, honestly, hating Wednesday would make everything so much easier.

But no. The universe, in its usual cruelty, had to make the Addams heiress absurdly beautiful.

It was unfair.

And yet…

It didn’t matter that Wednesday was cold as a blizzard and more closed-off than a Swiss vault. It didn’t matter that she spoke as if every word were a death sentence. None of it mattered when Enid remembered those dark, fathomless eyes, the black hair that seemed to absorb the light around her, the damn white shirt with the top button undone — just enough to send the imagination running wild, which was absolutely unacceptable.

“She’s an Addams,” Enid muttered to herself, dragging her suitcase toward the mansion door. “She probably has a basement full of knives. And still… and still…”

Still, there were nights when Enid dreamed of that gaze. Of those lips. Of the way Wednesday walked, as if the entire world were a stage and she the only actress worth watching.

It was irritating. It was unfair. It was… dangerous.

She hated it. She hated the way her heart sped up when she heard Wednesday’s name. She hated the way her skin tingled at the memory of their accidental touch during the last family dinner. She hated that, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t truly hate her.

“This is madness,” she said, stopping in front of the door. “I can’t even pick an outfit for a weekend at the beach. How the hell am I supposed to pick a wife?”

Marriage. The word sounded like a sentence.

One month. Thirty days. And then: the altar, rings, eternal vows, and maybe a honeymoon in some haunted castle overlooking the abyss. With Wednesday. The woman she was supposed to hate… the woman she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She breathed deeply, trying to push down the warmth rising up her neck. It wasn’t desire. It was anger. Frustration. Damn chemistry. That had to be it.

“One month,” she whispered. “Thirty days with her. Thirty days pretending this is normal. Pretending I don’t want to claw her eyes out…”

She closed her eyes, trying to gather herself. When she opened them, the mansion stood there — imposing, silent, as if it already knew every secret that would eventually be whispered within its walls.

“This is going to be a disaster,” she said.

And deep inside, a treacherous voice whispered: Or it will be the beginning of something you’ve wanted for a long time.

++

The mansion looked as if it had been carved straight from shadow.

Tall, imposing, and completely devoid of any trace of joy, it stood like a monument to gothic bad taste. The walls were as black as wet ink, the windows tall and narrow, and the air carried the scent of old wood and melted candles.

Enid stopped at the entrance, arms crossed, glaring at the building. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, turning to her parents. “This house is horrible.”

“Enid, please,” Esther sighed, adjusting the collar of her beige coat as if she were about to walk into a business meeting and not abandon her daughter in a mausoleum. “It’s only for a month.”

“A month is enough time to go insane. Or commit homicide. Or both.”

Murray let out an impatient snort. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, sorry I’m not jumping with joy at being locked in a house that looks like an eighties horror movie with an Addams.”

“You know why this is necessary,” Esther said, voice low and cutting. “If this union fails, Enid, it won’t just be a broken marriage. It will be a war. A real war.”

“Oh, sure. Nothing like putting the fate of two families on the shoulders of a teenager. Totally fine. Super light.”

“You’re a Sinclair,” Murray said, in that commanding voice he used when he wanted to sound more like a drill sergeant than a father. “You were raised for this!”

“I was raised to be a person, not a chess piece!” Enid exclaimed, eyes glistening with anger. “I had a life, you know? Friends. Plans. A boyfriend…”

Both parents exchanged startled glances.

“A boyfriend?” Esther asked, dangerously calm.

“It doesn’t matter,” Enid snapped, too quickly. “He wasn’t an Addams, so you’d never have approved anyway.”

She thought of Bruno. The crooked smile, the golden eyes, the way he made her laugh until her ribs hurt. He was a werewolf like her, but lighter, softer, carrying none of the weight that suffocated the Sinclair name. They met in secret, exchanged messages, chocolates, quick kisses by the school gate. He made her feel like she could choose. Like she could be free.

But freedom was a luxury the Sinclairs never offered.

“Are you going inside or are you going to keep making a scene?” Murray asked, already heading back to the car.

“I’m going, don’t worry. Straight to my miserable-bride dungeon.”

“Enid…” Esther began, but her daughter was already climbing the steps.

The door opened with a perfectly dramatic creak — of course — and a tall butler, pale as old paper with the expression of someone who had given up on life decades ago, appeared in the foyer.

“Welcome, Miss Sinclair. May I take your bags?”

Enid dropped the suitcase with an exasperated sigh. “Be my guest.”

She walked inside. The mansion swallowed her whole like a hungry mouth. The black marble floor reflected her distorted silhouette, and the portraits on the walls seemed to watch her, judging her pink hoodie and glittery boots.

She missed home. The lavender scent of her bedroom. Laughing with Yoko and Divina. Her grandmother’s lap. Bruno. The world where she could still pretend she had choices.

Now all she had was this… a dark mansion, an arranged marriage, and a bride who seemed to feel nothing for her.

“Shit,” she muttered, alone in the foyer. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

She looked around. Everything was dark, cold, silent. As if the house had been built to suffocate any trace of color, warmth, or life.

“If I survive this, I’m painting this entire mansion canary yellow.”

But for now, all she could do was take a deep breath, lift her chin, and walk inside. Because if she was going to live a nightmare, at least she would do it her way.

++

“My God… this place is a funeral with a roof,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose at a vase filled with dead flowers.

She walked slowly, her steps echoing far too loudly on the black marble floor. She counted the rooms in the hallway—seven. All with heavy doors, iron handles, and an aura of enter at your own risk. No open windows. No sliver of natural light.

It was like living inside a prison.

The dining room looked straight out of an aristocratic horror film. The table was so long it seemed endless, covered with a dark red tablecloth that resembled a sheet of dried blood. Iron candelabras hung from the ceiling.

Enid felt a shiver crawl up her spine.

“If I eat here, I’m going to need an exorcism afterward.”

She turned to leave and almost screamed when a voice appeared behind her.

“Miss Sinclair.”

“OH, FOR THE LOVE—!” Enid jumped, spinning around with her heart racing.

The woman in front of her was tall, elegant, with green eyes sharp enough to slice through pride and skin. She wore a perfectly tailored black dress, and her smile was as calm as it was threatening.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said with a small nod. “I’m Emily. The housekeeper.”

“Do you always walk around without making any noise? That’s… illegal.”

“Discretion is a virtue, miss.”

Enid eyed her with suspicion. Emily looked like she had stepped straight out of a luxury butler catalog with a Victorian twist. And, to Enid’s annoyance, the house was impeccable. No dust, no mess, not a single cushion out of place.

She wouldn’t say it aloud, but… if she really was going to get married, someone like Emily would be useful. Very useful. Maybe even essential. Maybe… just maybe… running a mansion like this one wouldn’t be that bad. Or better yet, running an even bigger one. After all, she would be an Addams. And their wealth… well, that was on another level.

The kind of fortune that bought silence, influence, and probably private islands.

But as tempting as power was, it was still smaller than the disgust she felt toward an arranged marriage.

“Would you like something to eat?” Emily asked, her voice sweet like poison in a crystal glass.

“No. Thank you. I lost my appetite the moment I walked into this mausoleum.”

Emily only smiled, as if she were used to hysterical guests.

Enid turned to go upstairs, determined to find her room and maybe a corner where she could scream in peace. But then, as if the universe had a particularly cruel sense of humor, she heard footsteps—soft, rhythmic.

And there she was.

Wednesday Addams.

Descending the staircase as if she owned time itself. The black suit hugged her frame, the white shirt open at the collar revealing a touch of pale skin that seemed to glow under the faint candlelight. Thing skittered beside her like a loyal servant.

Enid froze. Her heart thumped faster—out of anger, obviously. It had to be anger. It couldn’t be anything else. It couldn’t be because of the way Wednesday looked at her with that elegant boredom, as if Enid were a loud, colorful distraction she tolerated out of obligation.

“You arrived,” Wednesday said flatly. “And the house survived.”

“And so did I. For now,” Enid shot back, trying to sound firm, though her voice pitched higher than she wanted.

Wednesday observed her for a second too long. Her eyes traveled from head to toe, and something in that look—cold, almost clinical—made Enid’s stomach twist.

“Emily,” Wednesday said, shifting her gaze as if Enid were a crooked painting on the wall. “Make sure Miss Sinclair’s room is exactly as I instructed. No flowers. No mirrors. Nothing that sparkles.”

“Of course, Miss Addams. Everything is prepared as requested.”

“Excellent. We wouldn’t want her feeling… excessively comfortable.”

Enid stepped forward. “You know this is torture, right?”

Wednesday turned to her, eyes narrowing. “You call it torture. I call it acclimation.”

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Enid stood there, alone, blood boiling and cheeks burning.

“She’s unbearable,” she hissed. “Unbearable, arrogant, cold, presumptuous…”

But even as she spoke, her mind refused to let go of the image of Wednesday walking down the stairs.

The posture.
The voice.
The presence.

“And ridiculously beautiful,” she murmured, as if confessing a crime.

She hated it. Hated how she couldn’t actually hate her.

And this was only the first day.

++

Enid hated the room the very moment she stepped inside.

It was elegant, yes—elegant in the most oppressive way possible. Every detail screamed Addams wealth: the black wallpaper with silver filigree, the ebony-carved canopy bed, the Persian rugs too dark to be welcoming.

Everything seemed chosen to impress… and suffocate.

She shivered. Not with cold, but with that specific kind of chill that started in the spine and spread like a wave of discomfort. The kind that didn’t thrill—only unsettled the soul.

“Of course the room is pretty. Pretty like a luxury coffin,” she muttered, her eyes sweeping the space with growing irritation.

Her suitcase sat atop the bed, perfectly positioned as if placed there by invisible hands. Enid rushed to the window, yanking open the heavy velvet curtain. The late-afternoon light burst into the room like a scream for help.

She shut her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth touch her skin. She needed this. Needed light. If she stayed too long in this gothic mausoleum, she’d turn to stone.

Or worse… an Addams.

“Thirty days,” she whispered. “Thirty days in this hole!”

She leaned against the wall, trying to gather her thoughts. Marry Wednesday? Sure. That was settled. But that didn’t mean she would surrender herself. She wouldn’t be molded into a porcelain doll to fit the Addams aesthetic. She was a Sinclair, yes, but she was also Enid.

And Enid liked glitter, loud music, open windows, and freedom.

Maybe, if she played it right, she could convince Wednesday to accept a… functional marriage. An agreement. A non-aggression pact. They didn’t need to love each other. They just needed to survive each other.

Thirty days. Without killing each other. Was that too much to ask?

“I can do this,” she said, more to herself than to the room. “I just need… to try.”

She pulled the curtain more forcefully, lifting a cloud of dust that made her cough violently.

“Oh, of course,” she grumbled, fanning the air. “The house is spotless… until you try to breathe.”

Maybe Emily wasn’t as perfect as she pretended. Enid would be sure to bring that up—later. For now, she needed a moment of peace. She threw herself onto the bed, sinking into the absurdly soft mattress, and let the sunlight kiss her face while it still had the chance.

She grabbed her phone. The screen lit up, and there it was: a message from Bruno.

“Hey, just wanted to know how you’re doing. Everything okay out there?”

Enid bit her lower lip. They had broken up. Technically. But even so… it didn’t feel right that they couldn’t be friends. Bruno had been important. He still was. He knew parts of her she didn’t even understand herself. And unlike all this… he was warmth.

She began typing a reply—something light, something that said I’m fine without saying I’m trapped in a gothic castle with my sociopathic future wife—when she heard a noise at the door. A soft knock, followed by a creak.

She sat up instantly.

“Oh, great. Again?”

She yanked the door open with impatient force and found herself staring at a tall, thin man, as gaunt as a dry branch, wearing a dark gray suit and leather gloves. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, and his voice… surprisingly gentle.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. Please forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I am Elim, the butler of the house.”

“Of course you are,” Enid said, crossing her arms. “Do you all come in a bundled set of creepy employees?”

Elim didn’t seem offended. He only tilted his head in a polite smile.

“Dinner will be served soon. And Miss Addams requested that you meet her in her office in half an hour.”

Enid raised a brow. “She requested?”

“Yes, miss. She asked me to inform you.”

“Of course she asked. Because using her own legs would be far too much, right?” She sighed deeply. “Please let Miss Addams know that next time, she can come here herself.”

“Certainly,” Elim replied with a small bow. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He slipped away down the hallway as if he’d dissolved into the air.

Enid shut the door with a snap and let out a loud huff.

“Stupid Wednesday,” she muttered. “Stupid bossy, insufferable fiancée…”

But even as she cursed her out, she was already pushing off the bed, moving toward her suitcase to find something decent to wear. Because in the end, she knew she would go.

Not for Wednesday.

But because if anyone was going to come out on top of this disaster, it would be her.

++

Enid Sinclair didn’t simply get dressed.

She declared war—boldly, unapologetically, almost artistically.

She chose the most colorful, most radiant, most absolutely offensive piece she could find in her suitcase. A rainbow-sequined dress that shimmered with every step. Walking through the corridors of the mansion, she looked like a carnival crashing a funeral.

She smiled to herself, proud of the effect. “If this doesn’t make Wednesday foam at the mouth, nothing will.”

As she walked, her attention drifted to the paintings lining the walls. Old portraits framed in darkened gold portrayed generations of Addamses, their expressions fluctuating between existential boredom and passive-aggressive disdain. Sunken-eyed men, long-necked women, all wearing smiles that hid unspeakable secrets.

But one painting made her stop.

Two women.

One, ethereal, dark-haired, with a gaze that seemed to know too much. The other, blonde, impeccably poised, blue eyes so intense they still gleamed even in the dim light. They stood side by side, shoulders nearly touching.

Peculiar. It was the only word that came to her mind.

“Interesting, aren’t they?” said a voice behind her.

Enid jumped so high she nearly lost a shoe.

“Emily! For the love of— you need a bell. Or a rattle. Or a collar with little chimes. Something!”

The housekeeper smiled, unbothered. “These are Lavinia Addams and her companion, Lady Isadora Blackwell. They say the two were inseparable. Until the end.”

“‘Until the end’? Is that a euphemism for ritualistic murder or a blood pact?”

“Depends on which version of the story you prefer,” Emily replied, eyes gleaming. “Oh, and dinner is served.”

Enid nodded, still staring at the painting. “Great. Nothing boosts my appetite like a tragic romance.”

“And the room? Is it to your liking?” Emily asked, her voice dangerously sweet.

Enid turned to her with a tight smile. “If by ‘liking’ you mean ‘felt like being buried alive in a velvet coffin,’ then yes. Truly luxurious.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Emily said with a slight bow. “Good night, Miss Sinclair.”

Enid rolled her eyes and walked down the corridor, her dress glittering obnoxiously. When she reached the door to Wednesday’s office, she took a deep breath. She didn’t know what awaited her, but she was certain it would involve sarcasm, disdain, and probably a thinly veiled threat.

She knocked twice. The door opened on its own. Of course.

Wednesday sat behind a dark wooden desk, surrounded by ancient books, lit candles, and a steaming cup of tea. She looked like the CEO of the underworld. Thing perched at the edge of the desk, drumming bored fingers like he was unimpressed by human existence.

“You’re late,” Wednesday said without lifting her eyes from her book.

“And you’re unbearable,” Enid replied, walking in with the last scraps of her patience.

Wednesday finally looked up. Her gaze traveled down Enid’s dress.

“You came dressed as a disco ball.”

“Thank you. That was exactly the goal.”

Wednesday shut the book with a sharp snap. “We need to talk.”

“About what? About how you summoned me like I’m your personal assistant?”

“About the fact that we’re stuck together for thirty days. And like it or not, this needs to work.”

Enid crossed her arms. “You want us to pretend we get along?”

“No. I want us not to kill each other. It’s a solid starting point.”

Enid huffed. “Great. Because if you keep being this insufferable, I’ll start seriously considering poisoning.”

Wednesday rose slowly, with that infuriating elegance that made it seem like she floated instead of walked. She circled the desk and stopped right in front of Enid, eyes locked onto hers.

“Do you have claws, Sinclair?” she asked, her smile more threat than charm.

Enid lifted her chin. “Sharper than you think.”

“Good,” Wednesday whispered, leaning in. “I like claws—sharp ones.”

Enid blinked. Her heart lurched. Her breath hitched for a second. She hated it. The way Wednesday unraveled her with a single phrase. A single look. That damn smile that always seemed to know exactly what it did to her.

“You’re a problem,” Enid muttered.

“And you’re a distraction,” Wednesday replied, turning away like a cold blade.

Before Enid could answer, Emily appeared at the door.

“Dinner is served.”

Perfect. Dinner. All Enid needed to improve her mood: food, unresolved sexual tension, and the company of a fiancée who looked like she’d been sculpted from a gothic poem.

She took a deep breath, adjusted her dress, and walked forward.

If they were playing this game, she refused to lose.

++

Enid tried to eat.

She really did.

But chewing anything was nearly impossible with those black eyes pinned on her like nails into wood. Wednesday, seated on the other end of the table, watched her in complete silence, as if studying an exotic creature in a zoo.

The truffle mushroom risotto on her plate was impeccable—obviously, the Addamses never played around with food, even if they did play around with corpses. The aroma was delicious, the flavor rich, but none of it mattered. Because every bite came with the unbearable sensation of being dissected by Wednesday’s stare.

Enid lifted her fork, took a bite, chewed slowly, sipped her raspberry juice, and tried to swallow. The silence was so dense the clinking of cutlery sounded like thunder. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked—as if the mansion itself writhed with tension.

She inhaled deeply. Once. Twice. Three times.

And then she exploded.

“Are you going to keep staring at me like I’m a thousand-piece puzzle or are you going to say something?”

Wednesday didn’t move. She blinked once, slowly, as if deciding whether answering was worth her time.

“You are… visually aggressive. It’s like trying to dine in front of a glitter explosion.”

Enid’s eyes widened. “You’re so… so…!”

“Articulate,” Wednesday supplied, taking a sip of tea. “Thank you.”

“Insufferable!” Enid shoved her plate away. “I lost my appetite.”

Wednesday frowned slightly. “You should eat. You’ll need energy to survive the next twenty-nine days.”

“Don’t worry. I feed on frustration and sarcasm. I’m well supplied.”

She stood up, ignoring the fleeting look Wednesday shot her—was that annoyance? Concern? No. Impossible. Wednesday Addams didn’t get bothered. She simply archived resentment for future use.

Enid walked out of the dining room, firm steps but no destination. The mansion was a maze of shadows and locked doors. Each corridor darker than the last, as if the house itself tried to swallow her whole. She flinched at her own reflection in the mirrors, at the sound of wind against the windows, at the cracking of old walls.

Then she saw it—a light.

Soft, golden, seeping from a half-open door.

Curious, she pushed the door gently.

It was the library.

And, to her surprise, it was… strangely warm.

Shelves reached from floor to ceiling, overflowing with thick books and gilded spines. The scent of old paper mixed with waxed wood and something else. Velvet armchairs formed little reading nooks. A sliding ladder stretched along the higher shelves. A cold, elegant fireplace completed the scene.

Enid walked between the shelves, fingers grazing the spines. Some rough, some smooth, all whispering stories against her skin.

Then something called her.

Not a sound. Not a light. A feeling.

As if an invisible thread tugged her toward a specific shelf.

She stopped. One book stood out. Dark leather cover, gold detailing. Heavy. Ancient. Familiar.

She pulled it out.

On the title page, in graceful calligraphy:

“Property of Isadora Blackwell.”

Her heart pounded.

The woman from the portrait.

The blonde with the piercing blue eyes beside the Addams woman. The only one who looked… out of place.

A diary.

Enid didn’t know why, but she felt she needed to read it. As if answers lay within. As if Isadora had left clues for her. If anyone had lived with an Addams until the end, surely they knew how to survive. How to understand. How to… love?

“No. Absolutely not,” she muttered, clutching the book to her chest. “This is not about love. This is about strategy.”

She walked out of the library, determined to read it in her room. She needed silence. Privacy. Distance.

But as she turned the corner, she heard something.

A low, rich sound. Deep. Hypnotic.

She followed it, heart racing. It led her to a door slightly ajar. She peeked through the crack.

Wednesday.

Sitting with her eyes closed, playing the cello.

The music was intense, melancholic, overflowing with an emotion Enid never imagined that creature could feel. Wednesday’s fingers glided across the strings with precision and passion.

Her expression was serene, vulnerable, almost… human.

Enid stood frozen, the diary forgotten in her hands, her heartbeat slow, breath caught.

Wednesday was an enigma. But for a moment, Enid saw something beyond the armor. A crack. A glimpse.

She forced herself to leave. She couldn’t spy. She shouldn’t. Even if Wednesday was her fiancée. Even if she was the woman Enid needed to understand to prevent a war, to save a future.

But for the first time, Enid didn’t want to just survive the thirty days.

She wanted to understand that emotion.

++

The room was swallowed in shadows, except for a ribbon of moonlight cutting across the newly uncovered window. Enid entered with the journal clutched tightly against her chest.

She sat on the bed, crossed her legs, and for a moment simply stared at it. The dark leather cover felt warmer than it should. The faded golden letters still glimmered under the faint light...

She opened to the first page. The handwriting was slanted, firm, with long and elegant strokes. And then, she began to read.

“October, 1893
I met the great love of my life on a stormy night. Of course I did. She arrived at the inn like a whisper—soaked from the rain, wrapped in black, with eyes that looked as though they’d seen the end of the world and decided it wasn’t much to fuss about. I was reading in the lobby, trying to ignore the sound of water battering the windows, when she walked past me as if time itself had stopped to clear her path.”

“She did not smile. She did not ask permission. She simply looked. A long, direct look, as if she already knew me. As if she recognized me. And I… I did not look away.
Later, I learned her name. Lavinia Addams. A name that sounded like a spell. Or a curse.”

Enid turned the page, her eyes glued to the words. She lay on her stomach, chin resting on her arms, feet kicking absently in the air. The reading pulled her in like a whirlpool. She didn’t know why she was so engrossed, but there was something there—tension, a story left untold.

She kept reading, unaware of the time slipping by.

“She didn’t speak much. But when she did, it was as though every word had been carefully chosen. And still, there was something in her voice. Something I didn’t know I wanted to hear, and yet I…”

Enid bit her lip, flipping another page. The journal almost seemed to pulse in her hands. She was so focused she nearly fell out of the bed when she heard the knocking at the door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—!”

She stood up and yanked the door open impatiently. Emily was there, as always: immaculate, serene, holding a tray in her hands.

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair. I brought you a snack.”

Enid blinked. “But I didn’t order anything.”

“No. But Miss Addams requested that it be delivered.”

Enid went silent for a second. “Wednesday asked for this?”

“Yes.” Emily stepped inside with the grace of a well-mannered shadow and placed the tray on the small table. “She mentioned you hadn’t eaten at dinner. And… she seemed uncomfortable with that.”

“Uncomfortable?” Enid raised a brow.

Emily smiled, the kind of smile that knows more than it says. “Let’s say your absence was noticed. And not indifferently.”

Enid crossed her arms. “Is that the Addams way of saying ‘I’m worried’?”

“Perhaps it is the Addams way of saying ‘don’t starve yourself, it would be inconvenient.’”

Enid let out a short, surprised laugh. “How romantic.”

“Indeed. But if I may offer a piece of advice… sometimes silence speaks louder than the gesture.”

Before Enid could reply, Emily was already at the door.

“Good night, Miss Sinclair. Sleep well.”

The door closed with a soft click.

Enid stood there, staring at the sandwich—whole-grain bread, brie, arugula, apricot jam. Of course. Wednesday wouldn’t send just anything. She glanced at the journal still open on the bed, Isadora’s words still vibrating in the air.

Wednesday Addams was an enigma. And everything Enid thought she knew about her… seemed to be unraveling.

She didn’t understand.
But she wanted to. Needed to.

She returned to the bed, picked up the journal, and turned another page.

“She led me to the library that night. Said it was the only place where she could breathe. I understood. For the first time, I understood what comfortable silence was. The kind that asks for nothing. Only presence.”

Enid sighed. Her stomach growled. She picked up the sandwich, took a bite, and chewed slowly, her eyes still locked on the words.

Afterward, she turned off the light and lay on her side, the journal still open beside her.

She didn’t know what to do about Wednesday.

But strangely, she wanted to find out.

++

Enid woke with her face buried in a pillow that felt like it had been stitched by angels. As much as she hated to admit it, the bed was absurdly comfortable—Egyptian cotton sheets, blankets with the perfect weight, and a faint scent of aged wood that wrapped around her like a spell.

She stretched lazily, her messy blonde hair forming a halo around her head. The room was silent, bathed in soft light filtering through the cracks of the curtain. For a second, she forgot where she was.

She grabbed her phone.

“Eleven seventeen?!”

She practically jumped out of bed, tripping over her own feet as she ran to the bathroom. If there was one thing Enid knew about her fiancée, it was that Wednesday treated punctuality as a sacred virtue.

And missing breakfast? A capital offense.

After a rushed shower and a desperate attempt to tame her hair, Enid ran down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. The floral dress she had chosen swayed around her legs, and the strawberry scent of her soap still lingered in the air.

She turned the corner and nearly crashed into Emily, who was finishing setting the dining room table.

“Emily! Are you trying to kill me from fright?”

The housekeeper, as always, remained unbothered. “Good morning, Miss Sinclair. Did you sleep well?”

“Sleep? I passed out. I thought Wednesday was going to drag me by the ankles for missing breakfast.”

Emily adjusted a teacup on the table. “Miss Addams is in her office. She mentioned that you probably wouldn’t eat early. She asked us to prepare something when you woke.”

Enid blinked. “She said that?”

“Word for word.”

“Wow.” Enid looked at the table—sliced fruit, fresh bread, jam in glass jars, freshly squeezed orange juice. “This is… unexpected.”

Emily smiled with a glint in her eyes. “Miss Addams is many things. Predictable is not one of them.”

Enid wanted to ask more. Wanted to understand. But Emily, as always, was an elegant wall of measured responses. Before she could insist, Elim appeared in the doorway.

“Emily, I need your help with something. The greenhouse… had a minor incident.”

Emily nodded, gave Enid a final glance, and left with the graceful lightness of a well-mannered shadow.

Enid remained alone. She sat at the table, grabbed a slice of bread, and spread jam with automatic motions. It was her second day there. And she still didn’t know how to act. What to say. What to expect.

Everything was new. Strange. And somehow… intriguing.

She picked up her phone. A notification.

Mom: “Good morning. Is everything okay over there?”

Enid rolled her eyes. As if she actually cared. As if that message wasn’t just another reminder that she was being watched.

She didn’t reply.

Another notification.

Bruno: “Thought of you yesterday. I miss you.”

Enid hesitated. Then typed a short answer.

“Thought of you too. I’m okay. Just… trying to understand all this.”

She finished eating, grabbed the glass of juice, and walked down the hallway. She passed by Wednesday’s office. The door was ajar. She heard her voice—low, accompanied by Thing’s characteristic tapping on the wood.

“No. This needs to be resolved before the end of the week…”

Enid stopped for a moment. Wednesday’s voice was firm, but there was something in it… a note of exhaustion? Or maybe just too much focus. She couldn’t tell.

She breathed in deeply. She needed air. Space.

She returned to her room, grabbed Isadora’s journal, and held it against her chest. She remembered seeing a glass door in the back of the house, with a sliver of green beyond it. A garden. A place that seemed out of place in that universe of shadows.

She made her way there, walking through dark hallways until she found the door. She opened it.

And there it was.

The garden.

A small hidden paradise. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of a vine-covered iron pergola. Stone benches coated in moss, flowers in deep shades of wine, blue, and gold, and an old fountain. It was the only place in the house that felt… alive.

Enid sat on a bench beneath the shade of a twisted tree, opened the journal, and continued reading.

She didn’t know what she was looking for.

But somehow, she felt she was about to find it.

She sat on a stone bench covered in moss. Picked a cream-colored blossom and brought it to her nose. Its scent was sweet, almost intoxicating, like honey and wet earth.

“It was one of her favorites,” said a voice behind her.

Enid jumped, nearly crushing the flower between her fingers. “For the love of—! Elim! You need bells. Urgently.”

The butler smiled, trimming a rosebush delicately in the corner of the garden. “Forgive me, miss. I have light footsteps. A manufacturing flaw, they say.”

“You’re the butler and the gardener now?”

“Among other duties, yes. This garden is special. It belonged to the mansion’s former owner. Her last request, on her deathbed, was that we care for it as if she were still here.”

Enid looked around, more attentively. There was something sacred about that place. A kind of peace that didn’t match the rest of the house. It was as if the garden had been spared from the darkness.

“She must’ve been special,” Enid said without realizing.

“She was,” Elim replied. “And much more than that…”

He returned to his work, leaving Enid alone with the sound of pruning shears and the distant song of a bird.

She opened the journal.

“November, 1893
Today I was invited to dine with the Addams family. The table was far too long, the food far too quiet, and the stares… sharp. I felt as though I was being evaluated by a panel of judges. Lavinia’s mother asked if I knew how to sew. Her father asked if I could read and write.”

“Lavinia didn’t say a word. But her eyes were on me the whole time. As if saying: ‘Hold on.’”

“After dinner, she took me to the library. She didn’t speak. Just handed me a book and sat beside me. We stayed like that for hours. No talking. No touching. And yet I had never felt so… accompanied.”

“I’m afraid. Afraid of losing myself. Afraid of shaping myself so much to fit into this world that I forget who I am. But when she looks at me… I lose my reason.”

Enid turned the page, her fingers sliding gently along the fragile edges. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shadows over the paper.

“She told me today she doesn’t believe in destiny. That everything is choice. But if that’s true, then why do I feel like I chose her long before I knew her name?”

Enid frowned. Something in that sentence made her shiver. As if it had plucked a string inside her she didn’t know existed.

“Do you enjoy reading outdoors?”

The voice made her look up, startled.

Wednesday stood at the garden entrance, wrapped in black as always, but her face softened by sunlight filtering through the leaves. Thing perched on her shoulder, its fingers tapping a silent rhythm.

Enid snapped the journal shut with a quick click, as if she’d been caught reading someone else’s secret. “I… just needed some air.”

Wednesday walked toward her, her steps soundless on the grass. “This is the only place in the house where things don’t try to swallow you.”

“Yeah. I noticed. Strangely… pleasant. Which is strange, coming from you all.”

Wednesday stopped in front of her, eyes fixed on the journal. “You found the library.”

“Yes. And this… was there. I just… found it interesting.”

“You have good taste.”

Enid raised a brow. “You know who it belonged to?”

“Of course. Isadora Blackwell. Lavinia’s companion. She lived here for many years. Wrote obsessively.”

“She was… fascinating,” Enid said before realizing she’d said too much.

Wednesday tilted her head. “You seem different today.”

“Different how?”

“Less noisy. More… thoughtful.”

“Maybe I’m saving energy to deal with you.”

Wednesday smiled. One of those small, dangerous smiles that seemed to know more than they revealed.

“I hope you’re feeling at home.”

“Not exactly. But the sandwich helped.”

Wednesday didn’t reply. She just looked at her for a second too long. Then turned and walked back toward the house.

Enid remained there, her heart beating faster than she liked to admit.

She opened the journal again.

And dove back in.

++

Later that day, Enid threw herself onto the bed with her phone in hand and her mind spinning. The day had been long, strange, full of silences that said more than words ever could. And she desperately needed some familiar noise.

That was when she saw the messages.

Yoko: “Hey, are you alive? Can we call?”
Divina: “We need gossip. Urgent. And you’re our source.”

Enid smiled. For the first time in hours, she felt something close to home. Something normal. Something... like herself.

She accepted the video call, and within seconds the screen filled with Yoko’s familiar face and Divina, already wearing silk pajamas and a green face mask that made her look like an alien.

“ENID!” both of them shouted at the same time.

“Okay, okay, calm down, I still have hearing in both ears.”

“You’re alive! We thought the Addams girl had turned you into a statue and placed you in the garden.”

“Or that you ran away and are hiding in a basement in Paris.”

Enid laughed, getting up from the bed and heading to the closet. “No. I haven’t been petrified yet. But I’m not ruling it out...”

While looking for something to wear to dinner—not too flashy, but also not something that screamed ‘I accept being swallowed by this house’—she listened to Yoko talk about her new crush from the fencing club and Divina complain that her mother was trying to set her up with a cousin.

“He has a guinea pig named Caesar. I cannot live with someone who names a rodent after a Roman emperor.”

Enid burst out laughing, holding up a light blue dress with floral embroidery. “You have standards. I respect that.”

“Now talk about you,” Yoko said, eyes gleaming. “What’s it like living with the Addams girl? Is she really that... intense?”

“She’s practically an urban legend,” Divina added. “Young, rich, pretty, heiress of a creepy empire. Any woman would kill to be in your place.”

Enid froze. The dress still in her hands. Her heart racing for no apparent reason.

She didn’t know what to say.

How… how was she supposed to explain?

How could she translate what she had been feeling for the past hours? Wednesday’s stare at dinner. The quietly delivered sandwich. The cello music. The talk in the garden. The silence that spoke louder than words.

“She’s... different,” Enid finally said.

“Different how? Sexy-different or psychopath-different?”

Enid laughed, but the sound came out uneven. “Maybe both. I don’t know. She’s... she’s hard to read. It’s like everything she does has some hidden meaning. And I... I don’t know what to think.”

Yoko frowned. “You’re confused.”

“Very…”

“But do you like her?”

Enid bit her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I like her. I don’t know if I hate her. I don’t know if I want to run away or understand. It’s like... something changed. But I can’t name it.”

Divina smiled. “That’s called sexual tension, sweetheart.”

“You’re not helping.”

They laughed, and Enid felt a little lighter.
But when the call ended and the room fell silent again, she stood still for a moment, staring at the dress lying on the bed.

Wednesday Addams was a mystery. And Enid, no matter how much she tried to resist, was getting more entangled by the minute.

She got dressed, grabbed the diary, and looked out the window.

The sun was setting.

And she still had no answers.

But maybe—just maybe—she was finally ready to look for them.

She opened the diary on the page where she had left off and began to read.

“December, 1893
Today Lavinia held my hand. For a second. A light touch, almost imperceptible. But it was enough to unravel me from the inside out. She didn’t say anything. She just looked. As always. As if she could say everything without needing a single word.”

“Her family keeps looking at me as if I were a mistake. As if I were tainting something sacred. But Lavinia… she doesn’t back down. She doesn’t hide me. And that scares me. Because I don’t know if I’m strong enough to exist in her world.”

“Sometimes, I think about leaving. Disappearing. But then she appears. And everything inside me quiets. Or becomes more complicated. I don’t know anymore...”

Enid closed her eyes for a moment.

The wind outside was rustling through the leaves. She didn’t know why those words struck her so deeply. But something in them pulled at her.

Something she couldn’t yet name.

++

Enid walked down the stairs with careful steps, the sound of her heels muffled by the dark carpets lining the hall.

Dinner was precisely at eight, and she was already two minutes late. Not that Wednesday would complain—she wasn’t the type. She was the type who looked and judged. And Enid was tired of being looked at as if she were a puzzle with the wrong pieces.

The dining room was the same as always: enormous, silent. Wednesday was already seated at the head of the table, immaculate in her black suit, her hair braided perfectly, her eyes locked on Enid the second she stepped inside.

That intense stare. Always that.

Enid sat on the opposite end of the table, trying to look more composed than she felt. Emily appeared moments later, silent as a whisper, serving the appetizers—small portions of goat cheese with caramelized figs, thin toasts with herb butter, and pumpkin soup in deep black porcelain bowls.

“Is everything in order, ladies?” Emily asked, with that tone that always seemed to hide a second meaning beneath it.

Wednesday simply nodded, a small tilt of the head. Emily vanished like a well-trained shadow.

Silence settled.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was dense, yes. Heavy. But not hostile. It felt like they were both thinking too much to speak. Or maybe waiting for the other to do it first.

Enid stirred her soup absentmindedly.

Her mind was still spinning from her conversation with Yoko and Divina.

Sexual tension. Was that it? It couldn’t be. Or… could it? No. Wednesday didn’t seem to feel anything.

But then… why that look? Why the sandwich? Why the question in the garden?

She lifted the spoon to her mouth, swallowing too quickly, choking on a dry hiccup.

Wednesday looked up, surprised. “Are you all right?”

Enid coughed, waving her hand dismissively. “Yeah. Just… swallowed wrong.”

Wednesday watched her for a second longer than necessary before returning to her glass of red wine. “You seem distracted.”

“Maybe because I am.”

“How was your day?”

The question caught Enid completely off guard. She blinked. “You want to know… about my day?”

“Yes. I thought it was a common question between married couples.”

Enid opened her mouth but couldn’t find an immediate answer. Wednesday had a talent for leaving her speechless—not always in a good way.

“It was… fine,” Enid said at last. “I read a little. Talked to my friends. Took a walk in the garden.”

Wednesday nodded, cutting into her main dish—steak with wine reduction and roasted potatoes. “I couldn’t be present today. Family matters. Things you’ll have to get used to, I suppose. It’s part of what it means to be an Addams.”

Enid set her fork down, appetite gone.

“You mean this is going to be normal? You disappearing all day and me staying here alone, waiting for dinner?”

Wednesday looked at her, unhurried. “It’s not a matter of wanting. It’s a matter of function. There are responsibilities that cannot be ignored.”

“Even when you’re married?”

“Especially when you’re married.”

Enid fell silent. She didn’t know why that bothered her so much. It wasn’t like they were in love. It wasn’t like she expected flowers or declarations. But… something about the idea of an absent wife unsettled her.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the fear of being forgotten.
Or maybe it was that, for all Wednesday’s infuriating traits, Enid didn’t want her to be… distant.

“I just think that if we’re going to do this—this marriage, this façade, this whole thing—then we should at least look like a couple. In public. And that includes being present. Together.”

Wednesday watched her for a moment. Then nodded, slowly.

“You’re right.”

Enid’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You’re right,” Wednesday repeated, voice low. “Image matters. And you deserve presence.”

Enid didn’t know what to say. For the first time, Wednesday seemed… human. Not vulnerable, but real. And that disarmed her.

They went back to eating. In silence. But now, the silence felt different.

Still heavy. But carrying something new. Something Enid couldn’t name.

And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

++

Dinner was over, but the taste lingering on Enid’s tongue wasn’t exactly the wine sauce from the steak. It was the taste of something unspoken. Of a question she hadn’t dared to ask. Of an answer she wasn’t sure she wanted.

Wednesday had been… gentle. Or as close to gentle as she was capable of being. And that, for some reason, left Enid even more thrown off balance.

Back in the bedroom, Enid slipped out of the blue dress slowly. She put on an old sweatshirt, tied her hair in a loose bun, and curled beneath the blankets with Isadora’s diary in her hands.

She opened it to the page where she had stopped, the words pulling her back to another time, another restless heart.

“January, 1894
Today, Lavinia took me to the frozen lake behind the property. The sky was gray, the wind sharp as a blade, but she seemed immune to the cold. She walked with her hands behind her back, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
I followed her in silence. I always do. Not because she asks me to, but because I can’t help it.”

“Sometimes, I think I’m falling in love with her. And that terrifies me.
Not because she’s a woman.
But because she’s Lavinia.”

“I’m afraid to love her. Because I don’t know if she can be loved. Or worse—if she can love back.
And even so, I keep going. I keep staying. Because when she looks at me, even for a second, I feel like I exist in a way I never have before.”

Enid read the last line three times.
Then a fourth.
And a fifth.

She closed the diary gently, as if the words were still warm. She lay on her side, staring into the quiet room, listening to the distant creaks of the mansion around her.

She thought of Wednesday. Of the way she looked at her. Of the way she didn’t.
Of the way she said little but did things that spoke too loudly.

She thought of the sandwich. The garden. Dinner…

She thought of how she felt when Wednesday was near. And even more, how she felt when Wednesday wasn’t.

And then, she thought of Isadora’s sentence:

“I’m afraid to love her.”

Enid squeezed her eyes shut.

“No. That’s not it. It can’t be…”

But the silence didn’t disagree.

And the diary beside her felt like it was breathing.

++

Night fell over the mansion like a heavy veil.

Enid had gone to sleep late, her body exhausted, her mind restless. Isadora’s diary rested on the table, closed—yet pulsing, as if it still breathed. And when her eyes finally shut, the world changed.

She was in the garden.

But not the garden she knew.

It was larger. Older. The flowers were deeper in color, as if painted with blood. The sky was gray, the air heavy, and the silence… the silence was thick, as though time itself was holding its breath.

Enid was different. Taller. Stronger. Her arms firmer, her body more robust. In her hands, she held a bouquet—dark lilies, faded roses, and a single white flower at the center, like a plea for peace.

Her heart felt heavy. She didn’t know why. But something was wrong. Something broken. Something aching without a name.

Then she heard footsteps.

A woman approached.

Tall. Elegant. A dress black as a moonless night. Long, wavy hair falling like velvet curtains over her shoulders. And her voice—her voice was a whisper that felt familiar. Too familiar to be coincidence.

“My dear…”

Enid froze.

The woman stopped in front of her, dark eyes glimmering with an ancient sorrow.

“I’m sorry.”

Enid felt tears spill down her cheeks before she even understood why. They soaked her clothes, burned her skin. Her chest felt as if it were tearing open from the inside, something being ripped out.

She stepped back, uneasy, furious, confused.

“No! Stay where you are.”

The woman took a step toward her. “I am sorry…”

“You’re always sorry. But nothing ever changes. You never choose. You never choose me.”

The pain grew. Enid trembled. She wanted to scream, to run, to vanish. But then—arms.

Arms around her. Firm. Warm. Real.

The woman held her tightly. Urgently. Desperately.

Enid tried to resist. Tried to break free. But the embrace closed around her like a cocoon. And she melted. She cried. She gave in.

“I hate you,” she whispered. “I hate you for making me feel this!”

But she didn’t pull away.

And then, everything changed.

The sky turned red.

Screams. Fire. The garden in flames. Flowers burning. Trees crying smoke. People running. Faces twisted in panic.

And in the distance, the woman—her beloved—calling out for her.

“ENID!”

The sound tore through the air like a blade.

And Enid woke up.

Sitting upright in bed, gasping, her body drenched in sweat, eyes wide.

The room was dark. Silent. But the scream still echoed in her mind.

She placed a hand over her chest. It hurt. It still hurt.

“What… what was that?”

She looked at the diary on the table.

But didn’t move.

Because, for the first time, she was afraid to open it.

++

Enid didn’t sleep much after the dream.

How could she?

The images still clung to her skin like a scent that wouldn’t wash away. The burning garden. The dark-eyed woman. The embrace that was warmth and prison at once. The pain, the loneliness, the fear—everything mixed together, pulsing inside her like a wound with no origin.

She spent the day like a ghost.

Wandering the mansion’s hallways aimlessly, purposelessly, Isadora Blackwell’s diary pressed against her chest like a shield. She tried to read more, but the words danced before her eyes. Tried to write, but the pen felt impossibly heavy. Tried to forget, but the dream returned again and again in flashes…

Then dinner came.

The table was set as always, perfectly. Lit candelabras, aligned silverware, dark porcelain plates reflecting the light like distorted mirrors. Wednesday was already seated, as if she were part of the furniture—still, elegant.

Enid took her place across from her, trying to seem normal. But her eyes were sunken, her shoulders tense. She toyed with the food without eating, cutting her fish into tiny pieces.

Wednesday watched her in silence. Until she finally spoke.

“You’re unusually quiet today.”

Enid looked up, startled. “What?”

“You. You’re distracted. Did something happen?”

Enid hesitated. The question was simple. The answer was a maze.

“I just… didn’t sleep well.”

Wednesday said nothing. She only continued to observe her, as she always did.

Emily entered then, carrying a new tray of roasted vegetables. She set it on the table with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times. But her eyes—her eyes flicked from Enid to Wednesday with a knowing gleam.

“Anything else, ladies?” she asked, wearing a smile that wasn’t quite kind.

Wednesday did not look away from Enid. “We’re fine, Emily. You may leave.”

The housekeeper nodded and exited, closing the door with a soft click.

Silence returned. But now it was different. Denser. More intimate.

“You may continue,” Wednesday said.

Enid took a deep breath. Ran her fingers through her hair, trying to make sense of her thoughts.

“I wanted to ask you about… the diary. Isadora Blackwell’s.”

Wednesday raised a brow. “What about it?”

“You knew it was there. In the library.”

“Yes. I had it kept there. It’s an important piece of the house’s history.”

“She… she writes a lot about Lavinia. About what it was like to live with her…”

Wednesday nodded. “They were companions for many years. Isadora was a sensitive woman. Lavinia… was not easy.”

“She writes about her fears and insecurities about Lavinia…”

Wednesday set her fork down. “And you saw yourself in her?”

Enid hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s just that… I had this dream. And it felt so real. I was in the garden. But it was different. Like the same place, but in another time. And I was different too. And there was this woman…”

She stopped. Her throat tightened.

Wednesday didn’t rush her. She simply waited.

“She called me ‘my dear’. She apologized. And I… I was so angry. But also… it hurt. Like I had lost something that belonged to me. Like I already knew she would never choose me. And then… the garden caught fire. And she screamed for me.”

Wednesday remained silent for a long moment. Then spoke in the lowest voice Enid had ever heard from her.

“Do you remember her face?”

Enid thought. “Not exactly. But the voice… it was familiar. Like I’d heard it before. Like…”

She stopped. The thought was dangerous. Absurd.

Wednesday leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on her. “Dreams are windows. Sometimes to what we want. Sometimes to what we’ve forgotten.”

“And if it’s more than that?”

“Then perhaps you’re beginning to understand.”

Enid frowned. “Understand what?”

Wednesday did not answer.

And that made her even more uneasy.

++

The table was almost empty now, with only the half-filled glasses and the heavy silence left between them. Wednesday rested her fingers on the rim of her wine glass, swirling the liquid slowly, as if hypnotized by the deep red. Enid watched from across the table.

She didn’t know why she had started talking. But now that she had, she couldn’t stop.

“You said Isadora was sensitive. But… she seemed like more than that. She seemed… broken.”

Wednesday lifted her eyes. “She was. But not when she first arrived here.”

Enid frowned. “What do you mean?”

Wednesday leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the room. “Isadora Blackwell was the daughter of an English diplomat. She grew up among ballrooms and winter gardens. She was educated, refined, opinionated. When she met Lavinia, she was… alive. Bright. Like a star that doesn’t yet know it’s going to fall.”

A shiver ran through Enid. “And Lavinia?”

“Lavinia was… Lavinia. Silent. Proud. With a sense of duty that bordered on fanaticism. She didn’t know how to love like others do. But she did love. In her own way.”

“And they loved each other?”

Wednesday hesitated. “Yes. But not like in books. It was a love full of thorns. Of silences. Of difficult choices. Lavinia was never good at saying what she felt. But she made gestures. Small ones, almost invisible. Like planting a garden for her.”

Enid swallowed. “And even then… it wasn’t enough.”

“No. Because sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

They fell silent for a moment. Enid stared at the candle in front of her, watching the flame dance. Wednesday’s words echoed inside her, as if they had been spoken to someone else. Or to herself.

“You talk as if you knew both of them…”

Wednesday smiled but didn’t answer.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Enid asked without thinking.

“No. But I believe in echoes.”

“Echoes?”

“Some stories don’t end. They just change shape. Change time. Change names.”

A chill crawled up Enid’s spine. “Do you think… do you think what I’m feeling is connected to that?”

Wednesday looked at her for a long moment before saying only:

“I think you’re beginning to hear.”

Enid didn’t know what to say. But at that moment, she felt something inside her shift. Like a memory without form. Like a truth she wasn’t ready to accept.

And for the first time, she was afraid to find out.

But also… she wanted to know more.

++

The night draped itself over the mansion like a thick velvet cloak. Dinner had ended, but Wednesday’s words still echoed in Enid’s mind like a whisper refusing to fade.

Some stories don’t end. They just change shape. Change time. Change names.

Enid walked up the stairs slowly, her fingers grazing the cold railing. The hallway felt longer than usual, as if the house were stretching around her, trying to stop her from reaching her room. But she made it. And when she closed the door, she didn’t turn on the light.

She only lit the candle on the desk.

Isadora Blackwell’s diary was where she had left it—lying on the blanket, as if it had been waiting. Enid sat on the bed, pulled the covers over her legs, and opened the book carefully, like one opens an old wound.

The pages looked more worn now. Or maybe it was just the candlelight making them seem more fragile.

She turned until she found the next date.

“February, 1894”

Today Lavinia took me down to the cellar. She said she wanted to show me something.
The place was dark, filled with old boxes, dust-covered fabrics, and forgotten furniture.
In the corner, there was a chest. She opened it with a key she wore around her neck.

Inside, there were letters. Dozens. All written by her. None sent.

They were addressed to me.

Letters she wrote before she ever met me. Letters about a woman she saw in dreams.
A woman with golden hair who smiled like the sun.

She looked at me and said:
“I think you’re her.”

I laughed. I thought it was a metaphor.
But she didn’t laugh. She said she recognized me the moment she saw me.
That it felt as if she had been waiting for me for lifetimes.
That she had lost me before, and this time, she didn’t want to make a mistake.

But then she hesitated. And I saw it.
I saw the fear in her eyes.
The wall she built between us.
And I knew, in that moment, that there was something she wasn’t telling me.

She loves me.
But there is a secret.
Something she guards as if it were a sentence.
Something that keeps her from giving herself to me completely.

And I… I don’t know if I want to know what it is.

Because I think part of me already does."

Enid closed the diary with trembling hands.

The room suddenly felt colder. The candle flickered, casting shifting shadows along the walls.

She lay down, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

A secret.

Something Lavinia never had the courage to confess.

Something Isadora could feel, even if she couldn’t name it.

Enid squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push away the sensation that something was there—
something repeating, returning, pulling her in.

She didn’t know what it was.

But she knew she was getting closer.

And that terrified her.

More than any dream ever could.

++

She certainly shouldn’t be there.

But Enid had crossed the line of what was acceptable a long time ago. And now, the basement was just another door between her and the answers she needed to drag out by force.

The wood creaked beneath her feet as she descended, each step a warning. The air was dense, still, as if no one had breathed down there in decades. The smell of old paper, melted wax, and something else—something metallic, almost like rust—wrapped around her.

The basement was a cemetery of memories. Sheets covered forgotten furniture, boxes stood stacked like tombstones, paintings faced the wall as if ashamed to be seen. The flashlight’s beam trembled in her hand, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.

She looked for the chest.

The chest with the letters.

The chest with the secret.

She found it in the darkest corner, covered with thick, stained cloth. The wood was dark, carved with symbols that seemed to shift under the light. The lock was intact. Locked. Cold to the touch.

That was when she heard footsteps.

She turned, heart pounding.

Wednesday.

Standing at the entrance of the basement, swallowed by shadows, as if carved directly from them. Her eyes didn’t shine—they burned. Not with anger. With something older. More contained. More dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice low, unhurried. “But I knew you would come.”

Enid stood slowly. “You knew?”

Wednesday stepped inside, her movements silent. “This place has a calling. For those who carry too many questions.”

“And you? Have you found your answers here?”

Wednesday stopped before the chest. Her fingers brushed the lid as though caressing a scar.

“Some questions don’t have answers we would like.”

Enid crossed her arms. “Are you going to tell me what’s inside?”

Wednesday didn’t reply immediately. She sat on a covered trunk, like a queen on a throne of dust.

“Lavinia Addams was a woman made of stone. But even stones can bleed, if you know where to cut.”

Enid didn’t move. She just listened.

“She met Isadora at a time when loving a woman was a sentence. But Lavinia did not fear death. She feared love. Because love demands surrender. And she had been raised to resist.”

“And Isadora?”

“Isadora felt too much. She wanted to be touched, claimed. But Lavinia… Lavinia only knew how to love in silence.”

Wednesday looked at the chest.

“These letters… they are what Lavinia never had the courage to say. They are the words she wrote and burned inside herself. They’re what remained when Isadora left.”

Enid felt a knot in her throat. “She left?”

“Not exactly. She stayed. Until the end. But their love… it didn’t survive. It was consumed by what was never said. By what was hidden. By everything Lavinia had no courage to reveal.”

“Like what?”

Wednesday hesitated. For the first time, something cracked in her expression. A fracture. A shadow.

“Lavinia carried a secret. Something that tied her to Isadora. Something she believed to be a curse. A cycle. A repetition.”

“And do you believe that?”

Wednesday looked at her. “I believe some stories don’t die with time.”

Silence fell like a thick fog between them.

Two women about to be married.

Two strangers.

Two pieces of a story that might have already been told—and forgotten.

Enid looked at the chest. Then at Wednesday.

“Are you afraid that we’ll repeat what happened to them?”

Wednesday didn’t reply.

And that was answer enough.

“I want to open it,” Enid said, without looking at her. “I need to.”

Wednesday remained still for a moment. Then crossed her arms, her voice low, sharp like a sheathed blade.

“It’s late, Enid. And you’re tired.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Enid turned, eyes flashing. “You always do this. You always decide for me.”

“Because you don’t understand what you’re asking for yet.”

“And you do?”

Wednesday met her gaze. “I know enough to fear what comes after.”

Enid said nothing.

Wednesday sighed, barely audibly. “Tomorrow. We’ll spend the afternoon in the garden. Emily suggested a picnic.”

Enid blinked. “You? At a picnic?”

“A true nightmare.”

“Then why agree?”

Wednesday’s lips curved in a half-smile. “Because as much as I despise the idea of sitting on the grass and pretending to care about birdsong… there is logic in trying. We’re about to be married. Perhaps we should at least pretend we know each other.”

Enid crossed her arms. “You want to pretend?”

“No. But you want to understand. And I… am willing to allow it.”

“Allow?”

“Talk,” Wednesday corrected, with a trace of irony. “Talk, Enid. Like normal couples do.”

Enid didn’t reply right away. She looked at the chest once more, then at Wednesday. The proposal sounded absurd. But also… it was the first time Wednesday offered anything. Anything at all.

“Fine,” Enid said at last. “Tomorrow. In the garden.”

Wednesday nodded. “After that, if you still want to open the chest… I’ll give you the key.”

Enid’s stomach twisted. “You have the key?”

“Of course I do. Did you really think I’d leave something like this within anyone’s reach?”

“Well, you left the diary.”

“Because I wanted you to find it.”

Enid fell silent. There was something in the way Wednesday said these things—like she was always two steps ahead. Like everything was part of a plan she never shared.

“Good night,” Wednesday said, turning to leave.

“Wednesday.”

She stopped.

“Do you want this marriage?”

Wednesday didn’t turn back. “I want it to happen.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Then?”

Wednesday looked over her shoulder, her eyes dark as the bottom of a well.

“Why did you let me find the diary?” Enid asked softly.

Wednesday didn’t answer at once. She turned her face toward her, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the air quiver.

“Because I wanted you to understand,” she said at last. “But I couldn’t just throw all this onto you. It had to come from you. The desire. The choice.”

Enid bit her lip. “And if I hadn’t read it?”

“You would have. Sooner or later. You feel the calling. Just like I did…”

Enid looked away, her heart beating too fast. But there was something in Wednesday’s voice—a crack, a surrender—that pulled her gaze back.

And that was when she saw it.

For the first time, Wednesday looked at her as if she were the only living thing in the world. As if time had stopped. As if nothing existed but them.

“I fought it,” Wednesday whispered, her voice rough, almost trembling. “For days. Ever since you arrived. I fought the urge to keep you close. To touch you. To call you mine…”

Enid held her breath.

“Everything I did for you… was because I couldn’t bear the thought of you believing I didn’t care. Because I do care. More than I’ve ever allowed myself to feel for anyone.”

She reached out slowly and touched a strand of Enid’s hair, curling it around her fingers with a gentleness that held the weight of worlds.

“You disarm me,” she murmured. “You make me want things I’m not sure I can have. Even if I want you… I can’t have you the way you would want me to.”

“What? Why?” Enid asked, her voice trembling.

Wednesday released the strand but didn’t step back. Instead, she took Enid’s hand in both of hers, firm yet warm despite her cold fingers. Her dark eyes sank into Enid’s as if searching her soul.

“Because there are things in me you don’t know yet. Things that may drive you away. Things that bind me…”

Enid felt the world spin.

The energy between them was almost tangible. A thread pulling one toward the other.

She understood.

The feeling. The desire. The urge to touch. To be touched. To understand and be understood. To run. To stay. To surrender.

They were fiancées. A marriage arranged before they ever understood its weight. But now… now there was something more.

Something impossible to ignore.

“I can’t run from this,” Enid said, barely noticing she’d spoken. “Not anymore…”

Wednesday squeezed her hand. “Then don’t run from me…”

Enid leaned in, their faces inches apart. Her heartbeat echoed like a drum in her chest. She could feel Wednesday’s breath—slow, controlled, trembling. Her eyes were fixed on Enid’s, dark and deep as an endless pit.

And all Enid wanted was to fall.

To drown in Wednesday Addams.

In everything she was.

To dissolve into it.

But before she could bridge the small distance between them, Wednesday lifted a hand and pressed two fingers gently to her lips—soft as a sentence.

“Not now,” she murmured, and it sounded less like refusal and more like a desperate plea for time.

Enid felt the air escape her chest. Wednesday’s fingers were cold, but her touch burned.

“Why?” she breathed against them.

Wednesday drew in a long breath, as if pulling words from a locked vault.

“Because when I touch you for real…” She swallowed, her voice fracturing into something rare—vulnerability. “When I kiss you… when I allow what I want to allow… nothing will be undone. And I don’t want to be another story that dies in a basement.”

Silence closed around them, thick and alive.

Enid opened her eyes slowly, afraid any movement would make Wednesday retreat. But Wednesday stayed there—so close their breathing blended, so solid she seemed rooted in the basement’s darkness.

“I won’t run,” Enid said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “I’m not Lavinia. I’m not an echo of the past. I’m me.”

Wednesday studied her face like someone reading an ancient language—with reverence, with caution, with fear.

“And what if I don’t know how to be yours?” she asked softly. “What if all I know is to repeat what I was taught?”

Enid lifted her hand to Wednesday’s face, brushing her jaw with her fingertips. She felt the faint tremor there—small, hidden.

“Then I’ll teach you,” she said. “And you teach me what you know.” A small, tender smile rose on her lips, so different from her usual ones. “I’ll learn your language… and you’ll learn mine.”

Wednesday closed her eyes for a moment, as if those words carried too much weight. When she opened them again, they were darker, more intense, more alive.

“You speak as if this were simple…”

“Nothing about you is simple,” Enid replied, almost laughing at how true the words felt. “But it’s real. And I want what’s real.”

Wednesday released her hand slowly, but did not step back. Instead, she placed her own hand over Enid’s heart, feeling its frantic rhythm.

“Then tomorrow,” she said, like sealing a pact. “Tomorrow in the garden. We start with simple.”

“And tonight?” Enid asked, feeling sparks under her skin.

“Tonight…” Wednesday slid her fingers along Enid’s collar, a light, studied touch. “Tonight you sleep. You think. You decide whether you truly want to walk where this leads.”

“And where does it lead?” Enid whispered.

Wednesday leaned closer, so close the air warmed between them. Her lips almost brushed Enid’s skin—almost.

“A secret.”

The word fell like a spell.

Before Enid could reply, Wednesday stepped away slowly, as if backing from an edge too dangerous to face for long.

But as she passed her, she let her fingertips graze Enid’s shoulder—a thin line of contact, a promise, a warning.

At the stairs, she paused and looked back at the chest.

“Don’t open it without me,” she said. “Some truths bite. Others… devour.”

Then she climbed the stairs, vanishing into the darkness as naturally as if dissolving into her own shadow.

Enid was left alone in the basement—with the smell of old memories, the locked chest, the echo of a confession she shouldn’t have heard, and the taste of a nearly-kiss that seemed to linger on her skin.

She didn’t know whether she would sleep.

But she knew, with a clarity that almost hurt, that tomorrow could change everything.

And for the first time since stepping into that mansion…

She wanted tomorrow.

She wanted the garden.

She wanted Wednesday.

And whatever lay locked inside that chest—she wanted to face it beside her.

++

The dawn crept in slowly, as if the mansion itself had no intention of waking.

The air was cold, and every step Enid took seemed to echo louder than usual. In her pocket, she still held the note she’d found pinned to her door — Wednesday’s handwriting elegant, rigid, and precise:

“Meet me in the garden. There are things you need to know before we open the chest.”

The garden was quiet when she arrived. A thin mist dissipated around the hedges, and the fountain murmured softly at the center. Wednesday stood with her back to Enid, still and dark, as if she were carved out of the very shadows around her.

When she heard Enid’s footsteps, she didn’t turn. But her shoulders tightened slightly.

“You came,” Wednesday said, her gaze fixed on the water.

“You sent a note. I got curious,” Enid replied, stepping beside her.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the fountain’s gentle rhythm.

After a few seconds, Wednesday finally spoke:

“I need to tell you something…”

Enid tilted her head, studying Wednesday’s tense profile. “Is it about Lavinia and Isadora?”

“It’s about what they left for my family… and what it means for you and me.”

Wednesday finally looked at her. "And about the fear I’ve carried since the first time I heard your name…”

Enid drew a steady breath. "Then tell me.”

Wednesday seemed to gather her courage before beginning.

“When I was eight years old, my parents called me to the parlor and told me it had been arranged between our families that, in the future, I would marry the heir of the Sinclairs.”

She lifted her chin, tension shaping every word.

“Your name was mentioned as something inevitable. Like an eclipse no one could avoid.”

Enid blinked, surprised. “And that bothered you that much?”

“I didn’t know who you were. I only knew what they said about our families.”

“And what did they say?”

“That there was a curse…”

The air thickened.

Wednesday continued, her voice low:

“At the end of the nineteenth century, Lavinia and Isadora defied everything to be together. But Lavinia believed their love brought tragedy. That something was wrong. That nothing they tried could stop the suffering…”

She inhaled slowly.

“And in a moment of desperation, she cast a curse.”

A shiver ran down Enid’s spine.

“What did she say?”

“According to the records: ‘May the love of an Addams always be strong enough to save… or destroy.’”

“That’s horrible,” Enid whispered.

“It’s irrational,” Wednesday corrected. “But for generations, everyone treated it as truth.”

“And you? Did you believe it?”

Wednesday hesitated.

“No. Not until you showed up…”

Enid’s heart skipped.

“What… what do you mean?”

Wednesday took a step toward her, then another.

“I tried to avoid you,” she admitted. “From the very first meeting.”

“…Yes.”

Wednesday lowered her eyes briefly before continuing.

“Our families were at a gathering. You burst in, covered in dust, excited because you’d found a butterfly nest. And you smiled at me like nothing in the world was difficult.”

Enid smiled faintly. “And what did you think?”

“That letting you into my life was dangerous.”

“So you already liked me?”

“I did.”

The confession slipped out like a breath.

“And it terrified me.”

“When I was eleven?” Enid asked, stunned.

Wednesday lifted her gaze, revealing a vulnerability she almost never showed.

“You were everything Lavinia loved most in Isadora… and everything she feared losing. You were light. Movement. Chaos in a beautiful way.”

She stepped even closer.

“And I didn’t know if I had the right to want you.”

Enid’s chest tightened.

“Wednesday…”

“And when you came back… I tried to stay away.”

Her mouth pulled into a sad, almost amused half-smile.

“I lasted maybe… two days.”

“Two?” Enid let out a soft laugh.

“And I really tried,” Wednesday said. “I was cold. Sharp. Sarcastic. I thought it would work.”

“It didn’t.”

Wednesday raised a brow.

“Disastrously so.”

She drew a breath.

“Because I wanted you. Before I even understood why. And it broke me open.”

She lifted a hand and touched the back of Enid’s neck with exquisite gentleness.

“I’m afraid,” she confessed. “Of hurting you. Of losing you. Of repeating their story. Of loving you and having it destroy us.”

Enid cupped her face. "Hey, you’re not going to destroy me…”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise something else,” Enid whispered.

“Promise you won’t leave me.”

Wednesday closed her eyes, her lips trembling.

“I don’t want to go,” she murmured, raw and honest.

“Then stay with me.”

Wednesday opened her eyes — and surrender flickered within them.

“I’ll stay…”

The kiss happened instantly.

No hesitation. No fear.

A kiss woven from years of history, desire, and a courage neither of them knew they had.

When they broke apart, breathless, Wednesday pressed her forehead to Enid’s.

“After breakfast… we’ll open the chest.”

Enid smiled, her gaze unwavering.

“Good. It’s about time.”

++

The chest opened with a soft creak.

Inside, papers yellowed with age, faded ribbons, and the faint scent of dried flowers. Enid lifted a bundle of letters tied with a purple ribbon, Isadora’s name written in firm, elegant calligraphy.

Silence thickened between her and Wednesday.

Enid untied the ribbon with care — respect, tenderness, almost devotion — and opened the first letter. She recognized Lavinia’s name at the bottom. Her heart tightened even before she began reading.

The slanted handwriting trembled on the page, as if burdened by the weight of words never spoken aloud:

“My beloved Isadora,

Forgive me. Forgive me for not being strong enough to protect you — from my parents, from society, from the silent cruelty that steals from us what we love most. I tried, my love. God knows I tried…
But loving you, no matter how infinite, was not enough to keep us together.
I loved you with everything I am, and that love is what makes the pain almost unbearable.
I hope you find, one day, a place where there is light. Where there is peace. Where there is freedom.
And if any curse falls upon our lineage, may it be broken by someone who loves as fiercely as I loved you.

Forever yours,

Lavinia.”

Enid’s throat tightened.

She had grown up in a different world — one where loving someone forbidden no longer meant exile, shame, despair. She couldn’t fully imagine Lavinia’s pain. Or Isadora’s.

But she could feel it.

Because if someone took Wednesday from her…

If anyone dared separate them after everything…

After discovering that Wednesday had loved her in silence for years — since the day she appeared in her life, since the first startled glance, since every careful, restrained, frightened moment…

Enid would break the world apart.

And in that instant — holding a love letter with no happy ending — she understood Lavinia. Understood Isadora.

She and Wednesday were like them — two souls from different worlds, bound by an invisible thread, stubbornly connected.

But they were also entirely different.

They didn’t live in the past.

They weren’t trapped by old curses.

They were two young women who had the chance to choose each other.

Enid inhaled deeply and looked at her fiancée.

“If a curse exists,” she thought, “we’ll break it.”

Because she knew one immutable truth:

Nothing — absolutely nothing — could destroy what she felt for Wednesday Addams.

All Enid wanted was to love her fiancée. Marry her. Dance with her in a moonlit garden. Turn that mansion of grief into a place where, finally, someone had a happy ending.

For the first time in that family’s history.

++

Wednesday stood silent for a few seconds, watching Enid close the letter with care.

Even the wind seemed to pause.

Then, in a voice low, tense, and vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be, she asked:

“How do you feel… after reading that?”

Enid blinked several times, fighting back tears. But they came anyway, shining at the edges of her eyes. She took a deep breath and gripped Wednesday’s hand — tightly, as if that touch were the only thing holding her together.

Wednesday’s eyes widened, startled by the intensity.

Enid held even tighter, stepping closer until their faces were only inches apart.

“I feel… that I love you,” she said, her voice hoarse and painfully sincere. “And nothing — absolutely nothing — will make me leave. Not out of fear. Not because of what happened to them. And not because our marriage was arranged.”

She raised her other hand and held Wednesday’s face, forcing her to truly look at her.

“I’m staying because I want you. Because now I know who you are. I know how you feel. I know how much you fought, how hard you tried to protect me from yourself… and I’m not confused anymore.”

Wednesday didn’t blink. She only breathed faster, chest rising and falling subtly.

Tears finally slipped down Enid’s cheeks.

“I walked into this mansion not knowing who you were, not knowing you loved me. But now I do. And that’s why I want this to work. That’s why I want us.”

Before Wednesday could react, Enid grabbed her by the collar and kissed her — soft, firm, sure. Wednesday let out a small surprised sound against her lips — a brief, involuntary whimper that made Enid’s heart race.

She melted into the kiss, surrendering, her fingers gripping Enid’s waist with a need so urgent it bordered on desperation.

When they parted, breathless, Enid rested her forehead against Wednesday’s and whispered:

“And we’re getting married. And I’m not afraid.”

Wednesday, still dazed, still breathing like the ground had vanished beneath her, simply closed her eyes and leaned into her.

After a moment, Enid wiped her tears and looked at the chest.

Gently, she placed Lavinia’s letter back inside, set Isadora’s diary on top, and lowered the lid with reverence.

Wednesday frowned.

“Why are you putting everything away now?”

Enid stood and pulled Wednesday up with her, intertwining their fingers.

“Because their story ends here,” Enid said, conviction burning in her still-wet eyes. “But ours doesn’t. Ours is just beginning.”

She smiled softly, that bright, warm smile only Wednesday ever saw.

“Besides… if we take any longer, I’m sure Emily will come looking for us.”

Wednesday let out a resigned, almost amused sigh.

“Probably.”

Enid stepped back, tugging Wednesday toward the door.

“We have a few days here before the wedding. And now that I know everything… I want to enjoy every second with you.”

Wednesday squeezed her hand back — with no hesitation, no fear, nothing held back.

And together, they left the room.