Chapter Text
The forest was quieter than she remembered.
Not silent, but solemn, like a chapel of trees holding its breath.
Wednesday Addams stepped into the clearing with deliberate slowness.
Her boots crushed the undergrowth without apology, yet the sound felt muted beneath the dense canopy above.
Summer had ripened every leaf into a deep green, shadows dancing lazily across the forest floor.
A gentle breeze whispered through the branches, but even the birds kept their distance.
She said nothing.
She never did, not at first.
Thing followed, keeping pace on a low-hanging branch, his fingers tapping a rhythm she recognized but chose to ignore.
A fallen tree lay across the center of the glade, moss-covered and sun-bleached.
She sat on it, spine straight, as though ready to deliver a verdict to the wind.
Then, she closed her eyes.
“I know you’re here,” she said, barely louder than the rustling leaves. “I told you I’d hunt you down. You can run. I wouldn’t expect less. But I won’t leave without you.”
A low growl answered from somewhere among the trees.
Wednesday stood and left without turning her head.
She returned the next day.
Same hour. Same tree.
This time, she brought a book.
She didn’t read aloud. Not at first.
She simply sat, pages rustling between her fingers, eyes occasionally lifting toward the treeline.
No werewolf.
Only the wind.
She came again.
And again.
Every day, like clockwork.
Always the same spot.
Always alone (except for Thing, who seemed to understand the ritual and never interrupted)
Sometimes she’d speak.
Sometimes she wouldn’t.
Sometimes she brought a new book.
Sometimes she whispered lines of poetry, her voice so low the forest seemed to lean in to listen.
And then, one day...a sound, a rustle.
Wednesday didn’t lift her head, not immediately, but her fingers paused on the page.
Across the clearing, in the shadow of the ferns, two bright blue eyes watched her.
A large pale werewolf, almost luminous, with fur so light it shimmered silver in the sun.
Enid.
Not Enid as she had known her.
Not entirely.
But the creature she had become, perhaps the creature she had always been.
The werewolf didn’t move closer.
Neither did Wednesday.
They simply looked at each other.
Then it was gone.
The next day, the werewolf returned. Closer this time.
The days blurred into each other. The forest no longer felt threatening. It wasn’t a mystery to be solved, but a silent sanctuary, a space between two worlds: the one she had left behind, and the one she hoped to rebuild.
Thing stayed close.
Sometimes he tapped against bark or the cover of a book, as if trying to fill the silence neither of them dared name.
Each day brought a difference.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
One morning, Wednesday found a smooth white stone on the log where she usually sat.
She said nothing.
She slipped it into her pocket.
Another day, a pale feather. Almost transparent.
She stared at it for a long time before sliding it between the pages of her book.
The werewolf was watching.
Always at a distance.
Always silent.
But never absent.
Wednesday began reading aloud more often.
Poetry, Tragedies.
Sometimes, she murmured lines from her own journals, never admitting they were hers.
She offered them to the forest like secrets tossed into a well.
But she knew who was listening.
Sometimes the wolf’s ears would twitch.
Sometimes her breath would shift, just slightly.
Then came the storm.
A summer thunderstorm tore across the sky one afternoon.
Rain fell in thick sheets.
Wednesday didn’t move.
Soaked to the bone, she remained seated on the log.
Thing, more cautious, took shelter under a root.
And the werewolf returned.
Closer this time.
A low growl rumbled through the air, wary, but not aggressive.
Then: the presence.
Warmth.
The massive body of the werewolf settled just a few steps behind her.
Wednesday didn’t react.
But her fingers tightened slightly on the wet page.
The next morning, the sun returned.
The earth steamed under its renewed heat.
When Wednesday came back to the clearing, something was waiting for her.
A bracelet.
Worn, frayed. But familiar.
She stared at it for a long time then sat, as always.
That day, she read only one sentence:
“You're still here. I know it.”
No answer.
But that night, her dreams were different.
The following day, she brought something with her.
A photo.
Crumpled. A little faded.
Taken during their first year at Nevermore.
Enid smiling, eyes sparkling.
Wednesday, not smiling… but not frowning either.
She placed the photo on the log next to her book, without a word.
Then she began to read.
Half an hour passed.
Then the rustle.
The werewolf came closer.
Not fully.
But she looked at the photo.
She looked at Wednesday.
Blue eyes still blue.
And it was enough.
The next day was stifling.
Absolute silence.
Wednesday didn’t read.
Didn’t move.
She just sat, eyes closed, listening.
Then she spoke, very softly.
“I’m not good at begging.”
Silence.
“I don’t believe in second chances.”
A growl, listening.
“But you gave me one. Every day. And I think… I’m starting to understand.”
She opened her eyes.
The werewolf was there.
Very close, still.
And Wednesday, for the first time in days, reached out her hand, slowly, palm open.
The werewolf didn’t back away.
She stepped forward, just slightly.
A breath between skin and fur.
And then...
The world snapped.
Vision.
Enid.
Human.
Trapped.
Iron bars.
Her hands raw from clawing at the cage.
Her mouth opened in a scream but no sound came.
Only the silence of panic.
Another flash.
Enid, curled in a corner, her hair wild, her eyes dull.
Then slamming the cage.
Then sobbing into her knees.
Then...
Nothing.
Wednesday blinked.
The forest returned, still, quiet.
The werewolf was in front of her, watching, breathing, alive.
Wednesday’s hand dropped to her side, slowly, deliberately.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t speak.
Not for a moment.
Then, calmly, her voice low:
“You’re not lost. Not to me.”