The convention center buzzed with life—cosplayers in veils and nun habits, rows of posters from all the Conjuring films lining the entrance, the haunting score of the franchise playing faintly over the speakers. You’d been waiting for this day for months: The Conjuring: The Last Rites Q&A panel, with the entire main cast and directors in attendance. But the only name you truly cared about was Vera Farmiga.

You’d admired her for years—her raw talent, that warm, magnetic presence she had on and off screen. Seeing her as Lorraine Warren had shaped a part of your teenage years, but this? Seeing her in person? You could hardly keep still in your seat.

They filed onto the stage one by one—Patrick Wilson, Steve Coulter, Shannon Kook, followed by James Wan and Michael Chaves. Then she appeared. Vera. Dressed in all black, elegant and ethereal, her hair swept back just enough to show off the earrings that sparkled when she smiled. Your breath caught. She waved to the audience, and somehow, it felt like her eyes lingered on you for a moment.

The panel began—funny stories from set, how they filmed the exorcism scenes, what it was like bringing Lorraine back to life again. Vera spoke with that signature warmth, hands expressive, voice gentle. And when the floor opened for fan questions, you couldn’t help it. You stood, shaky hands clutching the mic.

“Hi, um... this is more of a thank-you than a question,” you said nervously. “Vera, you’ve meant a lot to me growing up. Watching you play Lorraine—someone so strong but kind—helped me get through a lot of rough days. So, just… thank you.”

She smiled. A real one. The kind that reached her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said into her mic, her voice cutting through the murmurs, “I don’t think you know how much that means to hear. Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come on,” she laughed. “Come up here.”

The crowd gasped in a wave of cheers as the security team gently motioned you forward. Your heart thudded as you stepped up onto the stage, and before you knew it, Vera’s arms wrapped tightly around you. She smelled like warm vanilla and something soft and expensive. Her hand rubbed soothing circles on your back as the room faded away.

“You’re so brave for saying that,” she whispered for only you to hear. “Thank you, darling.”

Your cheeks burned. You mumbled something incoherent in return, your brain short-circuiting from the physical contact. Someone snapped a photo. Vera laughed again and pressed a light kiss to your cheek before letting go.