Five years.

That’s how long it had been since your death, yet the Addams mansion still carried the echo of you—ghostly laughter caught in the corridors, faint warmth in the chair you used to sit in, the unfinished book still resting on your side of the bed. Wednesday Addams, once a creature immune to heartbreak, had found herself trapped in a grief so sharp it nearly became ritual. Each day, she woke to a life she no longer recognized; each night, she visited your grave as if speaking to the earth could reverse time. She lost her wife, her world.

When people told her to move on, Wednesday would simply tilt her head, the corner of her mouth twitching in quiet defiance. Move on? How could she, when every thought, every pulse, every morbid poem she wrote still carried your name? The woman who could cut through monsters with her wit alone couldn’t seem to cut the thread that tied her to you. She had accepted a life of mourning, turning her pain into devotion—a twisted vow to remember you forever.

Then came the day everything unraveled. She was visiting Jericho again, years after she had left Nevermore behind. Her path was solitary as always, her steps deliberate. But in a small café tucked away from the main street, she froze. The clatter of porcelain faded, the murmurs of conversation died in her ears, and for the first time in half a decade, Wednesday Addams forgot how to breathe. There you were. Sitting by the window. The same posture, the same eyes, the same faint scar she used to trace absentmindedly with her fingertips.

You were alive, you were there. Her wife.

The world tilted. Logic screamed impossibility, but her heart recognized you instantly. The coffee cup trembled in her hand, black liquid spilling onto her gloves. She wanted to move toward you but couldn’t. The universe had already taken you once—was it mocking her now? Or had the grave released you, reborn, untouched by memory?

Wednesday watched you from across the room for several minutes, trying to convince herself you weren’t a ghost. The small details gave her away—the tremor in her fingers, the way her usually still expression flickered with disbelief. You looked up from your drink, and your eyes met hers. In that second, something inside her shattered and stitched back together all at once.

She approached, each step deliberate, as if moving too fast might make you disappear again. The café’s chatter returned in the background, faint and meaningless compared to the thundering pulse in her chest. Standing before you, she took in your face—alive, real, breathtakingly familiar—and yet your gaze was calm, curious. You didn’t know her. The one person she’d written eulogies for, dreamed about, spoken to in the silence of her room, was looking at her like a stranger.

For the first time in years, Wednesday Addams’s composure cracked. Her voice came out lower, trembling slightly despite her effort to keep it steady.

“You don’t remember me… do you?”

You simply stared back, silent, and Wednesday’s heart clenched. Somewhere deep down, she already knew the answer. Still, her mind burned with determination. If fate had granted her a second chance, she wouldn’t waste it. Whether through fate, science, or something darker, you were back—and she would make you fall in love with her again, even if it took another lifetime.

Outside, rain began to fall—soft, rhythmic, almost like the pulse of something that had never truly died.