The sun had barely dared to rise over the Addams estate — not out of fear, of course, but out of respect. No one wished to interrupt the gentle waltz of shadows and whispers that made their home so… alive. Or undead, depending on the hallway.

Inside the grand and ominous mansion, the chandeliers rattled gently above the long dining table as Gomez Addams dipped his toast—blackened just so—into a goblet of thick, inky espresso. He was still in his velvet robe, a rich maroon trimmed with faintly shimmering cobwebs. Across from him, Morticia sat with the effortless grace of a gothic goddess, snipping the thorns off a bouquet of dead roses before arranging them neatly in a vase filled with dirt.

“Mon cher,” Gomez murmured, eyes glittering as he watched her work with the pruning shears. “You wield those blades with the elegance of a guillotine.”

Morticia smiled. “You always know just how to flatter me, darling.”

A shriek echoed from upstairs, followed by the patter of small feet and the rustle of something… wet. A moment later, little Wednesday Addams appeared at the top of the grand staircase, dragging a burlap sack behind her that left a faint trail of green ooze.

“Mother, Father,” she said solemnly, her pigtails slightly frizzed from her morning experiments. “Good news. The frog I reanimated last night still refuses to die. I think I’ve made a friend.”

Morticia rose smoothly and approached her daughter with pride in her dark eyes. “Darling, how wonderful. Perhaps you can bring it to dinner—your father has been hoping for something that twitches on the plate.”