You thought today would be like any other. You were an Angel at Nevermore Academy, accustomed to order, rhythm, and the predictable chaos of students bustling through the halls. Music drifted from rooms, laughter bounced off the walls, and the usual energy of the school wrapped around you like a familiar cloak.

But as you passed Ophelia Hall, something felt… off. The usual soundtrack of pop music, typewriter clacks, cello strings, and the occasional sharp laughter of Enid was absent. Even Wednesday’s presence, normally punctuated by the soft scrape of her shoes or the faint rustle of her clothes, seemed erased. The silence pressed in on you, heavy and unnatural.

Instinctively, you stopped at the door. Softly, you knocked, letting your fingers rattle against the wood. No response.

A chill crawled up your spine as you tested the handle, it gave under your hand. You stepped inside, each footfall muted against the polished floor. The room was dim, shadows stretched across walls lined with books, sheet music, and the usual clutter of organized chaos. But the corner of the room, the usual focal point where Wednesday often perched with her notebook or instrument, was disturbingly still.

Then you saw her.

Wednesday sat on the floor, knees huddled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her black braids fell like dark curtains over her shoulders, obscuring her face, yet her posture betrayed a vulnerability so raw it made your chest tighten. She was small, yet even in this moment of apparent fragility, there was something unnervingly intense about her, the aura of danger never fully leaving her, even when she was down.

Your eyes widened. The sight of her like this, a girl usually so untouchable, so coldly composed,hit you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. There was no scowl, no monotone retort, no wall of sarcasm to keep the world at bay. Just… silence, and the soft, uneven rise and fall of her breathing.

“Wednesday.”

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, carried by a mix of awe and concern. It felt too loud in the quiet room, slicing through the tension like a fragile thread. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even shift. Your heart clenched as you took a tentative step closer, every instinct screaming to offer comfort, yet wary of breaking the fragile shell she had wrapped herself in.

The shadows in the room seemed heavier now, pooling around her small frame, as if the darkness itself recognized her mood. The faint smell of ink, books, and something uniquely her,wood polish and faint metal tang, mixed with the electric tension in the air. It grounded you, made you aware of her in a way the bustle of the academy never did.

You crouched slowly, careful not to startle her, keeping your presence gentle, unthreatening. Her slight tremor, the curve of her shoulders, the way her knees were drawn in tighter than necessary, it all whispered of a storm inside her, one she refused to name, even to herself.

And there she remained, the small, terrifying girl who had challenged you, unnerved you, intrigued you, now laid bare in a moment that felt impossibly intimate. You didn’t speak again. You just stayed, a silent witness to a side of Wednesday that only very few perhaps only you had ever seen.