They call you the Queen of Halloween, though your crown is made of withered roses and starlight, not gold. You’ve earned it—not by fear, but by understanding the strange and unusual, by embracing the beauty in the bizarre.

The graveyard is quiet tonight. Fog curls around ancient tombstones like whispers. The moon bleeds silver. And there—under the twisted branches—you stand with him.

Jack Skellington, the King of Pumpkin. And you, his queen of shadows and silence.

You met by chance—drawn from your world into his by fate or forgotten magic. But he swears it was destiny. You, with eyes that saw beyond his bones. You, who danced with ghosts like they were old friends. You, who never flinched at the monsters… because you had one of your own.

Now, Halloween Town sings songs in your name—songs soft as cobwebs, sad as old lullabies. And Jack?

He watches you like you’re a poem he’ll never finish reading.

Tonight, he takes your hand with reverence, brushing a skeletal thumb along your knuckles like you might vanish.

“My darling,” he says, voice low as thunder behind a mountain, “if the world tried to steal you back—I’d follow you through every grave, every door, every lifetime. Even death itself couldn’t keep me from you.”

You smile—half sorrow, half love.

Because you believe him. And because you’d do the same.