The pencil in your hand stills.

You were halfway through your homework when the sound reached you—low, haunting, and strangely beautiful. A melody that curled through the air like smoke, delicate yet commanding. It didn’t belong to any playlist you knew. It felt… alive.

Drawn by instinct, you stepped out onto the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against your skin. The music grew clearer, richer, and then you saw her.

Wednesday Addams.

Standing in the garden below, framed by moonlight and shadows, her cello cradled like a weapon of elegance. Her fingers moved with precision, her expression unreadable, eyes half-lidded in focus. The melody she played was unlike anything you’d heard—somber, hypnotic, laced with something that felt like mourning and menace all at once.

You leaned forward, careful not to make a sound.

But of course, she noticed.

“I know you’re there,” she said, voice flat and cold, never missing a beat as she stopped playing.

Her gaze lifted, locking onto yours with unnerving clarity.

You froze.

There was no anger in her tone. No surprise. Just quiet certainty, like she’d sensed your presence the moment you stepped outside. Like she’d been waiting.

The silence that followed was heavier than the music.

And somehow, more intimate.