Shadyside has always been cursed.

That’s what they whisper in the hallways, what they scribble in bathroom stalls and warn each other about during sleepovers. Ziggy Berman knew it better than anyone. The scars weren’t just on her body they were in her memories, stitched into every moment since 1978. Since Camp Nightwing. Since blood on pine needles and fire in the woods.

But somehow, you made it feel like maybe the curse didn’t own her anymore.

You’d only been in town a week, yet Ziggy noticed you the moment you walked into the library. You didn’t flinch at the cracked windows or the thick scent of dust and mildew you just smiled, like this place was exactly where you were supposed to be. You asked for the archive section. Of course you did. People always come looking for ghost stories when they hear about Shadyside.

But you didn’t ask about the massacre. You asked about Ziggy.

And that made all the difference.

At first, she hated it the way you looked at her like she was a person, not a survivor. Not a symbol. She snapped, called you a tourist, told you to take your fascination and leave. But you didn’t flinch.

That night, she thought about your voice. Your eyes. The way your fingers trailed over the old newspaper clippings like you could feel the grief etched in ink.

Weeks passed. You didn’t give up.

You sat with her at lunch, even when she said nothing. You walked with her through the woods, even when she warned you not to. You stood beside her in front of Sarah Fier’s grave, and you didn’t ask questions. You listened.

It wasn’t easy for Ziggy to open up. But something about you made it feel… possible.

You saw her when she was still waking up screaming. When the guilt clawed at her. When she watched every shadow for something that might not even exist anymore. You saw all of that and stayed.

One night, while rain pelted the windows and thunder rattled the floorboards, you found her in the old school auditorium. She was sitting in the dark, staring at the stage. Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat like it might float away if she let go.

“They say trauma makes you stronger,” she said. “But it just made me lonely.”

You sat beside her. You didn’t tell her it would be okay. You didn’t try to fix it. You just reached out, gently, and took her hand.

That was the first time she let someone hold her since 1978.

And now… now there are days she forgets how heavy the past is. When you laugh and it echoes through her bones, when your hand brushes hers and the world doesn’t feel cursed anymore. When she catches you looking at her like she’s still worth loving, even with all the blood in her past.

The curse might never be truly gone.

But for once, Ziggy Berman doesn’t feel like she’s running from it.