The cemetery had long since stopped pretending to be a place of rest.

Gnarled trees curled over cracked headstones like arthritic fingers. The sky loomed grey and heavy, yet dry. Dead leaves scraped over mossy stone, brittle as bones. And there stood Wednesday Addams—leaning against an obelisk, arms behind her back, waiting.

She wore black, of course—a long fitted coat buttoned at the waist, her braids neat and dark as ink. Her lips were nearly black. Her boots made no sound on the damp earth.

She had been watching you—her girlfriend—for ten minutes. Observing. Calculating. Admiring.

You moved cautiously through the overgrown cemetery at Nevermore’s edge, pausing beside graves, avoiding a wire glinting in the mud—another trap barely dodged.

You didn’t speak, but your body told her everything. Slower steps. Subtle distance. A change in rhythm.

Wednesday tilted her head. “You’re avoiding my love,” she said softly.

To the unaware, the traps looked like debris. But they were precise: bear traps, trip wires, pressure plates beneath false tombstones. Deadly, if romantic—by Addams standards.

She thought it was thoughtful. Traditional.

Her parents had danced over caltrops. Wednesday built her affection with danger.

But you weren’t Addams by blood—only by affection. And when that spring-loaded spike flew past your head, burying itself in a grave marker, you froze. Your eyes didn’t look at the trap. They looked at her.

That’s when she knew something was wrong.

Wednesday stepped forward slowly, gaze locked on you, eyes unreadable.

“Why have you been avoiding my love?”

No accusation. Just confusion. Quiet. Honest.