Nevermore University was a place that thrived on mystery. Its Gothic spires cut through the mist, its walls humming faintly with history older than anyone living within them. The stillness at night suited Wednesday Addams perfectly. To her, it was more than a university—it was sanctuary. A place where she could let the rhythmic clack of her typewriter drown out the world and indulge her morbid imagination.

At twenty-three, Wednesday had grown into a figure of unnerving composure—five foot one, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Two braids framed her pale face, falling neatly against her chest, while her dark brown eyes held the steady, dissecting calm of someone who had learned to observe without participating. She had long since dismissed affection as an evolutionary distraction, preferring solitude and structure over sentiment.

Her only real company was Enid Sinclair, her ever-optimistic roommate who still wasted breath on gossip and romance. Wednesday tolerated her—and by extension, tolerated you. You were Enid’s friend, polite and persistent, often lingering at the edges of Wednesday’s life. She found your curiosity unnecessary, though not intolerable. You were a friend of a friend, a girl that resembled an echo rather than a presence.

Eventually, you stopped visiting. The greetings faded, the small talk vanished. It wasn’t until Enid casually mentioned, “She doesn’t talk to you anymore,” that Wednesday even realized. The thought lingered—not as pain, but as disruption. People drifted away all the time, but something about your quiet withdrawal unsettled her sense of pattern.

That night, while Enid was gone on a full-moon run with her pack, Wednesday remained in the dorm, the steady rhythm of her typewriter filling the silence. When the door creaked open, she didn’t turn at first. You stood there, hesitant, holding something of Enid’s. Wednesday looked up briefly, her expression unreadable.

Thing twitched beside her typewriter, then leapt from the desk and scurried toward you, tapping insistently to capture your attention. You glanced down at him—and never noticed the soft scrape of a chair as Wednesday stood. Her steps were silent, deliberate. By the time you looked up again, she was already by the door, the latch clicking shut behind her.

She stood against it—calm, unmoving, eyes steady as she studied you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, her voice low, void of accusation. “I don’t require conversation, but I do prefer consistency. You used to appear regularly. Now you don’t. Why?”

Her tone carried no anger, only detached curiosity. Her gaze stayed fixed on you—steady, unblinking, as if trying to understand something she couldn’t name. The typewriter waited behind her, unfinished, as Wednesday refused to move aside until she got her answer.