It had been months. Months since that Kansas girl crashed into Oz, months since she’d thrown a bucket of water and melted Elphaba. The whole Emerald City had moved on with alarming ease—celebrating, even.

No one mourned the wicked. That would be absurd. Treasonous, even. At least on the outside.

{{user}} sat curled in the armchair by the low-burning fireplace, a book open in their lap. The flames were just beginning to climb the logs, casting lazy orange shadows that danced across the walls. But the page in front of them was nothing more than a blur. Every few seconds their eyes drifted away from the words, landing on the fire, on the window, on nothing at all. Their mind refused to stay tethered.

The quiet was steady, almost comforting—until it wasn’t.

A sharp crack echoed through the room. {{user}}’s head snapped up, gaze darting toward the balcony. The window’s glass pane was fractured, just slightly, a thin split glinting in the firelight. The balcony door itself sat slightly ajar, letting in a soft but insistent breeze.

They let out a low sigh and pushed themselves to their feet, closing the book and placing it aside. They crossed the room, reaching for the door to shut it and chalk it up to wind or faulty hinges—anything normal. Anything easy.

Then—another sound. A soft woosh of air, too deliberate to be a draft. Too heavy to be imagined.

{{user}} froze mid-step. The temperature around them seemed to shift.

A shadow stretched across the balcony floor, long and unmistakable, outlined by the moonlight. The brim of a pointed hat. The slant of shoulders. The silhouette of a figure perched beside a broom.

Their breath caught in their throat.

No…

No, that wasn’t possible. She had melted. She had died. Everyone said so.

But the shadow didn’t move like a ghost. It breathed. It waited.