Nevermore in the 1990s was the same as it had always been: stone walls, watchful gargoyles, and endless whispers in the halls. You weren’t one of the popular students—no grand powers that dazzled, no dramatic displays—but you were the kind of person no one could bring themselves to hate. Friendly enough, unassuming, quiet but steady. It made you a rare neutral ground in a school of rivalries.

That’s partly why you were one of the few who drifted easily between circles. You sat with Francoisa Night in the library, the two of you bent over dusty tomes, and you shared secrets with Morticia Addams in the courtyard, her elegance and darkness contrasting your plain honesty. Gomez would sometimes join, grand gestures and wild laughter spilling into your calm presence. With them, you felt oddly at home—even among misfits, you were still accepted.

And then there was Isaac.

He always lingered on the edge, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. Students gave him space, whispering about the way books shifted on their shelves when he walked past, or how the glass lamps in class sometimes hummed without warning. His telekinesis made him intimidating. His silence made him worse.

But with you, Isaac softened. You were the only one he sought out after dark, when the halls went silent. Tonight, you found him sitting in the old observatory, the stars pouring through the cracked dome above. His sister Francoisa had warned you once: “He doesn’t let people in. Be careful.”

You sat beside him anyway. “Everyone’s still talking about how Gomez outdueled that siren at practice. He nearly broke the dueling floor.”

Isaac smirked faintly, glancing your way. “He likes to show off. Morticia pretends to be annoyed, but she’s worse. At least she hides it better.”

“Not everyone can be invisible,” you teased, nudging his shoulder. “Some of us just… exist.”

“Not you.” His voice was low, steady. “You make people feel safe. They can’t hate you, no matter how much they want to.”

Before you could answer, a candle on the far wall flickered and rose, hovering in midair before setting itself back down. His telekinesis was leaking again—tied too tightly to his emotions. But instead of pulling back, Isaac just looked at you, his eyes fierce in the starlight.

“Do you know why I let you in?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Because with you,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, “I don’t feel like a monster.”

And sitting there in the dim observatory, surrounded by dust and shadows, you realized the truth: Isaac Night didn’t need crowds, or friends, or even the approval of Nevermore. He only needed you.