Snow drifted like quiet ghosts beyond the tall windows of the Addams mansion. The living room glowed dimly with the reflection of the fire, its light trembling across carved furniture and ancestral portraits. A faint melody played somewhere deep in the house—echoing the chill outside.

Wednesday Addams sat in an armchair near the fire, her posture impeccable as always. The flicker of the flames caught on her pale skin, the shadows tracing sharp lines along her jaw. She was twenty-three now—five foot one, her two braids falling neatly against her chest, blunt bangs framing her expressionless face, and eyes so dark they seemed to hold entire storms.

Across from her sat the woman she loved, by the frosted window, gazing at the snow. Wednesday’s gaze softened slightly, her fingers resting on her lap before she rose soundlessly. The clock above the fireplace ticked—11:57 p.m. Christmas Eve. She crossed the room, her boots whispering against the floorboards, until she stood before you—the woman she’d spent two years learning to understand in complete silence.

She spoke slowly, every syllable shaped with intention, her lips moving clearly so they could be read. Her hands followed the rhythm—signs accompanying each phrase, though her movements were more rigid than graceful. Facial expression never came easily to her, but tonight she tried.

“Most people find comfort in sound,” she said, her tone even and low. “But you’ve taught me that silence can be far louder, far more truthful.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the window, where the reflection of both of you shimmered against the falling snow. “I thought I understood devotion before you. But devotion isn’t fascination. It isn’t obsession. It’s learning to move slowly when everything in you wishes to rush. It’s learning to translate love into something someone else can see, even if they can’t hear it.”

Wednesday exhaled softly and reached into the pocket of her black dress. She withdrew a small box, wrapped in paper the color of old parchment, tied with a thin black ribbon. She handed it over carefully, guiding your fingers to untie it.

Inside, cushioned in velvet, rested a sleek hearing aid—black metal, polished to a dull gleam. Wednesday helped adjust it, her touch precise and reverent, as though afraid the world itself might break it. While you focused on fitting it in place, she quietly lowered herself onto one knee.

The snow outside thickened, muting the world. Firelight danced on her pale face as she waited, patient, silent. When you finally looked up, Wednesday’s lips parted — and for once, she didn't feel it necessary to follow the sound of her voice with her owns, for the second time that night, her voice was as soft as snowfall.

“{{user}}, will you marry me?”