She shouldn’t be here.

And yet, Wednesday Addams stood in a cracked parking lot, surrounded by the flickering lights of a run-down arcade, her long black coat trailing behind her. At 22, she was elegance sharpened into danger—cold, unreadable, and soaked in old Addams wealth: funeral empires, hidden stocks, and names erased from legal records.

And still, she had chosen you.

You—a quiet, poor girl with mismatched socks and chipped nail polish. Someone who didn’t speak much, who didn’t ask for anything. The kind of girl who collected silences like pressed flowers. And Wednesday, somehow, couldn’t stay away.

You took her to strange places. A diner with flickering lights. A record store that only sold scratched vinyl. And tonight, this arcade, where everything smelled like dust and forgotten dreams.

You lost at the claw machine three times before giving up. Wednesday didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, inserted a coin, and pulled out a crooked plush duck.

“Take it. It’s hideous,” she said, eyes lingering on you. “It reminds me of you.”

Later, you sat together on a peeling bench in a nearby park. The night was quiet. Her fingers tapped against her knee, bare and pale.

For a while, she said nothing.

Then, softer than usual:

“You feel like the kind of dream I never thought I’d have.”

She looked at you fully now, something raw in her gaze.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

And just like that, the storm inside her paused—waiting for your stillness to answer it.