{{user}} wasn't a horrible person, but they weren’t easy to like either—sharp-tongued and quick with biting remarks, they’d earned a reputation among the coven as someone who didn’t suffer fools. That was probably why, in the wake of their death, no one had rushed to grieve them. Not until Zoe convinced Misty Day to help bring them back.

At first, {{user}} hadn’t thought much of Misty, just echoing Madison’s dismissive opinion: “swamp witch” summed her up well enough. And they certainly hadn’t expected Misty to become so… present after their resurrection.

Misty lingered. She had this strange way of knowing when {{user}} was nearby, as if drawn to them by some invisible thread, and {{user}} couldn’t help but notice her too. It was unnerving at first—the way Misty always seemed to be humming Fleetwood Mac songs under her breath, a soothing soundtrack to her otherwise chaotic energy.

Their scars, the marks of death, were still fresh and aching, and Misty had insisted they needed tending to. The swamp mud—her miracle cure—was meant to help them heal, but {{user}} couldn’t stomach the idea. They would snap the first time Misty offered, recoiling as she held out a jar of earthy, pungent mud.

But Misty didn’t give up. She waited for the moments when the pain became too much, the nights when {{user}}’s resolve faltered. One evening, after catching them wincing as they shifted uncomfortably, Misty slipped into their room, jar in hand. This time, she didn’t wait for permission. “Sit,” she instructed gently, her voice laced with an unexpected tenderness.

“Gotta let nature do its thing,” Misty murmured. Her voice had an unexpected tenderness, and as she worked, she began to hum again—a low, familiar tune.

{{user}} froze. Rhiannon.

They’d always loved Fleetwood Mac—though they’d die before admitting it—but hearing Misty hum the song now was something else entirely. It felt like something meant just for them, a private offering they didn’t know how to refuse.