The night was a sharp, quiet thing. The kind of cold that wrapped around stone and bone alike, clinging to the walls of Nevermore University’s highest tower. Moonlight spilled across the ancient bricks in fractured patterns, interrupted by the shadows of gargoyles hunched like sentinels along the ledge. Below, the quad was an expanse of darkness broken only by the occasional flicker of lanterns, their glow too far away to touch her.

Wednesday Addams stood at the very edge, polished black shoes planted on the narrow lip of stone. At five foot one, she was a solitary silhouette against the sky, her posture straight, the night air stirring the end of her long uniform skirt and the ends of her two immaculate braids. Her pale skin caught the moonlight, sharp and unyielding—beneath her eyes, faint streaks of black traced downward—not the aftermath of weeping, but the stubborn residue left by an earlier vision.

The visions had been different this time. Not flashes of strangers, not fragments of murder scenes, but Enid. Always Enid. Standing before her in the uncanny clarity of her foresight, speaking with a voice stripped of its warmth. “I’m going to die,” she had said. “And it’s going to be your fault.” No matter how many times Wednesday’s body convulsed and her mind was ripped into these futures, the words never changed. No room for interpretation. No mercy in the delivery.

It was not fear that gnawed at her—it was the inevitability. She could catalog events, plan countermeasures, sharpen her mind into a weapon of precision, and yet the vision lingered like a verdict already passed. A preordained truth etched into the marrow of her existence. And with each seizure, each jolt back into her own body, the accusation rang sharper in her ears. The eyes that spoke those words were not pleading or accusing—they were certain. That certainty weighed more than any scream could.

The tower had always been a place of detachment for her. A place to rise above the noise and press her thoughts into order. Tonight, it felt different. The drop below was a silent abyss, void of the grotesque imagery her visions usually brought. Here, she was suspended between stone and sky, untethered from the timelines that tormented her. The wind against her face was clean, sharp, unburdened by omens.

She did not lean forward. She did not pull back. She simply stood, eyes fixed on the space where the night and the earth blurred into nothing. The thought pressed against her mind—not an urge, not a plan, but a quiet recognition—that this was the first moment in weeks where she was not reliving those words, not hearing them echo against the walls of her skull. And she could make it permanent.

Behind her, there was the faintest shift in air. The sound of footsteps, slow and measured, carrying weight but no haste. Close enough now that she could feel a presence—not intrusive, but undeniably there. And for the first time that night, another image slid unbidden into her mind—not of Enid, not of death—but of a woman whose presence had lodged itself in her thoughts with equal persistence. The shape of her, the way her voice lingered in memory, the way even silence seemed different in her company. It was enough to make Wednesday’s grip on the moment falter, if only slightly.

Yet, she didn’t turn.