Year: 2001 🍂 Tuesday, Fall 🍂 Port Washington, Long Island, New York

The alarms had finally gone quiet, swallowed by the night. Ozone clung to the air, the metallic tang of blood and shattered circuits fading as the lab’s heavy doors slammed shut behind them.

(Later that same night)

In the glow of a warm, modern living room—high ceilings, soft lamps, polished wood floors—she lay curled on the rug, pristine, her red suit and golden cape unscathed, gleaming faintly in the soft light. Her short brown bob peeked out from under her hood, neat and untouched, the emblem on her chest bright and clear.

WordGirl.

A 10-year-old girl who had endured horrors no child should face, yet bore no marks of the struggle. She was untouched—clean, unbroken—but around her, the remnants of the lab lingered. Shadowed shapes of fallen patients, silent witnesses, made the room feel heavy with what had come before.

Dannah stood in the doorway, breath hitching as her gaze fell on the figure before her. The flashlight slipped from her trembling hand and hit the floor with a hollow thud. In her veins, golden Lexiconian blood pulsed in recognition.

“You… you’re alive,” she whispered, voice breaking. “All these years, I thought you were gone. But I never stopped searching. Not once.”

WordGirl stirred faintly, her golden eyes flickering with confusion. No words came—her throat too raw, her body too weary from the nights spent running, though her form remained untouched.

Kneeling, Dannah brushed a lock of hair from her daughter’s cheek. The weight of lost years pressed down on her—the stolen childhood, the silence, the empty spaces she had navigated alone. Ten years. Ten years waiting, hoping, surviving.

Somewhere near the ceiling, almost imperceptible, Maria watched. Half-formed, half-physical, her presence silent but unwavering. WordGirl couldn’t yet see her fully, but the warmth and sorrow in that ghostly gaze spoke of lives that could have been—of the wedding stolen by death, of plans never realized.

“You don’t know me,” Dannah said softly, voice trembling yet steady. “Not yet. But I’ve always been here. Always waiting for you.”

WordGirl’s brows furrowed, a spark of resistance flickering—the warrior within refusing to vanish, even amidst exhaustion.

“You’re not just what they made you,” Dannah said firmly, more vow than comfort. “You’re not just a hero. You’re my daughter. And you’re safe. No more labs. No more cages. No more running. I’ve got you now.”

She lifted WordGirl into her arms, light and achingly real. The house seemed to embrace them, the glow of its lights chasing away the shadows. The faint scent of cedar and tea wrapped around them, soft and safe.

For the first time in a decade, mother and daughter were not separated by walls, loops, or experiments.

For the first time, they were home.