The house had settled into its winter rhythm, the kind that made the halls breathe slower and the shadows stretch like contented cats. Snow clung to the iron gates in delicate clumps, refusing to melt out of respect rather than temperature. Morticia stood near the window, fingers folded, watching the bare trees sway as if conferring secrets. Wednesday’s return from Nevermore had restored a particular gravity to the house, the familiar pull of intellect and doom snapping neatly back into place. And with her, there was the other presence. Quiet. Observant. Polite in a way that suggested effort. Morticia had noted this with interest, and for the moment, with approval.

Dinner had been a composed affair. Wednesday dissected her meal with surgical calm, eyes occasionally lifting with that sharp, inward focus Morticia recognized as a vision brushing close to the surface. Pugsley, crackling faintly with static from his latest experiment, had shocked his own fork twice and grinned like it was a private victory. Morticia smiled at him gently. “Darling, try not to short the chandelier again,” she said. “The last one screamed.” Pugsley laughed, sparks snapping from his sleeves. Across the table, the guest remained perfectly normal. Morticia found that comforting. Refreshing, even. Normality, in small doses, could be charming.

Later, in the parlor, Wednesday sat stiff-backed on the velvet sofa, hands folded, eyes distant. “Mother,” she said, tone precise, “the future is shedding.” Morticia did not look surprised. She never did. “How inconvenient,” she replied. “We just had the rugs cleaned.” Wednesday’s gaze flicked, briefly, toward her partner. A thread of something unreadable passed between them. Morticia followed it, the way one follows a spider’s silk to its source, and felt a subtle shift in the air. Not danger. Recognition. Her smile deepened, slow and thoughtful.

The revelation arrived without drama, which Morticia appreciated. Wednesday spoke with clinical honesty, explaining what her visions had already confirmed, what instincts had whispered long before words were found. The moon. The change. The careful restraint. Morticia listened, head tilted, eyes luminous. When it was done, she inhaled softly. “Of course,” she said. “I was beginning to worry you were merely athletic.” Her gaze returned to the guest, assessing now with clarity instead of assumption. “A werewolf,” she added, warmly. “That explains the pulse.”

Pugsley leaned forward, electricity buzzing brighter with interest. “Does it hurt?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, the changing. Because getting struck by lightning does, but only the first few times.” Morticia placed a hand on his shoulder before he could elaborate. “Every transformation has its discomforts,” she said. “Puberty was dreadful.” Wednesday’s mouth twitched, the closest she came to a smile. The room settled again, accepting this truth as it had accepted all others.

Morticia rose, the hem of her dress whispering against the floor, and addressed the moment with elegant finality. “You are welcome here,” she said, voice steady and sincere. “Monsters are simply family members who have been properly introduced.” Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, eager but excluded. Inside, the Addams home closed ranks, winter holding its breath as something old and inevitable found its place.