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It has been 8 years. 8 years since Eleven disappeared right in front of Mike, right in front of the party and right in front of Hopper.
Mike was jolted awake, beads of cold sweat formed in his face. He always had those nightmares of Eleven disappearing in front of him. He could never forget the pain he had to go through after that. The room was dark, but Mike swore it never truly was. There was always something there. A feeling. A pressure in his chest that never left. “Eight years.” he whispered to the ceiling, his voice breaking like it always did. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The clock beside his bed blinked 3:15 a.m. Every night, the same time. Every night, the same dream. Eleven and him in the void. Eleven slowly fading. Eleven being gone, forever.
Eight years passed, but time never really moved forward for Mike Wheeler. He functioned. That was the word people liked to use. He woke up, drank his coffee, answered emails from publishers who praised his brilliant prose and haunting emotional depth. His books sat neatly on shelves, translated into languages he didn’t speak. People said he had turned pain into art.
Mike’s newest book was called Three Waterfalls. Critics called it his most honest work. Readers said it felt cold and vast, like standing alone in a place too big for one heart. Mike never corrected them. He never explained that the waterfalls weren’t metaphors. They were pauses. Moments where the world drowned out thought. Places where loss could finally be loud.
At a crowded book signing in New York, a fan flipped through a worn copy and smiled up at him. “Have you been to Iceland?” she asked lightly. “Because of the three waterfalls?” Mike’s pen froze above the page. Iceland. The word echoed in his head, unfamiliar and heavy. Somewhere far. Somewhere untouched by his memories of Hawkins. Somewhere the air was cold enough to numb everything. “I—” He stopped. The silence stretched too long. People shifted. Cameras clicked. “No.” he finally said, voice quieter than intended. “I haven’t.” But the idea stayed with him long after the event ended. It followed him home, sat beside him as he stared at his ceiling that night. Another country meant distance. Distance meant breathing room. Maybe even peace.
He called the party and invited them to his apartment. Dustin was the first to arrive, congratulating him of his success. Lucas and Max arrived 10 minutes after Dustin. Will was the last to arrive at his apartment. They all exchanged a small talk before Max asked what is the real purpose of Mike for inviting them over. “I’m taking a break.” Mike said finally. That alone made them all look up. “From writing?” Dustin asked. “Like… a vacation break, or a ‘disappear into the woods’ break?” Mike let out a small breath of a laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe both.” He hesitated, then added, “I booked a flight.” “To where?” Lucas asked. “Iceland.” Mike responded. The word settled between them, strange and distant. They all tried to talk Mike out of it, but Mike already made a decision. When the day of Mike’s flight arrived. They showed up to the airport. They hugged him before he left. Awkward, familiar, grounding. As if they were sending him off with pieces of home stitched into his coat.
He sat by the window, forehead resting lightly against the cold glass as the clouds stretched endlessly beneath him. The cabin lights were dim, most passengers asleep or pretending to be. His book lay unopened on his lap—his own name embossed on the cover like it belonged to someone else. He closed his eyes. At cruising altitude, the world below disappeared completely. No Hawkins. No roads he recognized. Just white and gray and nothing. It reminded him of the void where Eleven said her good bye. As he was about to fall asleep, he felt a familiar presence, her presence. Not beside him, not in front of him—but around him. Like a hand brushing past his shoulder without touching. Mike’s breath caught. His heart skipped, then steadied. “El?” he whispered under his breath, afraid someone might hear. There was no answer. But the feeling stayed. Warm. Steady. Hope crept in quietly, the way it always did when he thought of her—not loud enough to scare him, not strong enough to hurt yet. Just enough to keep him breathing. Mike stared out the window again, watching the clouds break apart as the plane pushed forward. For the first time in years, he wasn’t writing his way toward her. He was moving. And somewhere between takeoff and landing, with the sound of the engine surrounding him like a heartbeat, Mike allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t another goodbye. Maybe it was the beginning of something he had waited eight years to find.
The sound of the waterfall and the paper rustling can be heard inside the cabin. She’s sitting by the window reading a book— a book that is written for her. The sun kissed Eleven’s face, she squints her eyes and set the book down in her lap.
It has been 8 years since she chose to vanish, leaving everything in Hawkins, including the person she loves the most, Mike. She could never forgive herself for leaving him, but she knows it, she knows that it was the only way to stop the cycle or to lift the curse surrounding Hawkins. It took her a year to build her life again. But really, how did she survive that? I mean, she is dead—supposed to be dead, but here she is, inside her own cabin, still alive and well.
It’s simple. She and her sister had devised a plan on how to escape the government that has been chasing them since the moment they learned how to use her powers. The Eleven the world watched die was an illusion—one Kali created strong enough to fool even the government. It bought them time. Just enough to run. For a while, it worked. They hid. They breathed. They hoped. Then, a month later, everything fell apart. The government found Kali inside a store, Kali couldn’t escape them, after all it would just give out about Eleven’s whereabouts. Back in their hideout, Eleven couldn’t shake the feeling of something bad about to happen, so she followed her sister using her powers. She saw everything. Kali on her knees. Hands restrained. Blood already staining the floor. Kali felt Eleven watching and looked straight into the nothingness between them. “Run.” Kali whispered. Eleven screamed, reaching for her, stepping closer—BANG. The sound echoed through the void, louder than any monster, louder than her own heartbeat. Kali collapsed, helpless, bleeding, eyes still open as the world around her faded into darkness. Eleven fell to her knees, alone, sobbing in the emptiness.
It was hard for Eleven to survive she worked as a waitress in a small restaurant in a city near Hawkins, it was hard for her at first, but she managed. After a year of working, she finally earned enough to fly to another country. When the owner of the restaurant asked her what country she would choose to move in, “A place where it has at least three waterfalls. ” she responded, politely. When she finally held the ticket in her hands, it felt unreal—thin paper, heavy meaning. Another country meant distance. Distance meant safety. She chose Iceland without hesitation. The waterfalls drew her in first. Powerful. Endless. Alive. But beneath that fascination was a memory she never let herself forget—sunset in Hawkins, in the rooftop with Mike, whispering dreams about what will happen after everything is safe. Leaving. Escaping. Finding a place untouched by monsters and blood and away from the government.
Mike didn’t expect much from Iceland. A break from writing, from Hawkins, from everything that reminded him of loss. He rented a small cabin in Haifoss, not far from the waterfalls, with walls that were thin enough to hear the river roar but thick enough to keep the world out. The first morning he walked to the edge of the waterfall, notebook in hand, he felt it. Something. A weight in the air, light and insistent, like a whisper brushing past the back of his neck. He froze. He looked around, half-expecting a stranger—or maybe a ghost. But there was nothing. “Must be imagining it.” he muttered.
But he wasn’t.
The waterfalls in Háifoss had always been Eleven’s go to place since the moment she arrived in Iceland. She made it a tradition to go and see the waterfalls thrice a week. But this day was something special. The waterfalls called to her, yes, but more than that, there was a quiet tug in her chest, a pull she couldn’t name. The moment she saw him—Mike, standing at the cliff edge, hair catching the morning light—her breath caught. She tried to turn away, to walk the other direction, to disappear into the mist. She couldn’t. Something about him, even from afar, rooted her there. And every time she tried to avoid him—taking a different path, slipping into the small town, ducking into a café—the universe seemed to push them closer. She’d round a corner and there he was again, writing in his notebook. Watching her, almost unknowingly, as if he could feel her without seeing. Mike paused mid-step, a strange feeling crawling along his skin. He couldn’t explain it—just a pull, a warmth, a memory pressing against the edges of his mind. He shook his head, certain it was nothing, but still… he didn’t move. Each near-miss tightened the invisible thread connecting them, tugging them toward the inevitable. Eleven’s chest aches every time. Every glance from afar felt like a punishment, but also like a promise. She tried to stay away, to let him live his life, to let him heal without her haunting it—but the world had other plans. Even as she ducked behind a tree, hoping he wouldn’t notice, Mike’s eyes still lifted instinctively. Their gazes didn’t meet, but the moment lingered like static in the air.
The red string of fate had started untangling—quietly, little by little—and with every attempt to escape, the universe only pulled them closer. Each step she took away tightened the thread, guiding them back into the same paths, the same moments, the same breath of air. Soon, she knew, there would be no running. Fate was patient, but it was relentless, and it had already decided where they would meet.
The market smelled of fresh bread and smoked fish, of wool scarves and hot chocolate from the café at the corner. Mike wandered between stalls, restocking groceries for his cabin. The sun cut through the mist, glinting off cobblestones wet from the morning rain. Then—He froze.
A figure. Small, familiar, almost impossibly so. Hair catching the sun. Eyes that made his chest flutter. Eleven. Every detail burned into his memory from eight years ago—the way she tilted her head, the faint curve of her shoulders, the quiet intensity in her gaze. For a second, the world stopped. The market, the people, the smells—they all vanished.
And then her eyes met his. Mike’s breath caught in his throat. It’s her. It’s really her. But before he could move, she turned. Like a shadow, she bolted, weaving between stalls and startled vendors, knocking over a basket of apples without hesitation. Her movements were urgent, desperate, trying to put miles between them in seconds.“El!” Mike shouted, heart pounding. He sprinted after her, weaving through the crowd, dodging children and carts. “Eleven! Excuse me please”. But the market seemed to be against him. People blocked his path, corners appeared where there were none, and every attempt to catch her was swallowed by the noise, the chaos, the space between them. He could see her—just a flash of coat and hair—but couldn’t reach her. Her head turned slightly over her shoulder, and he caught a glimpse of her, he could see the pain, the longing in her eyes. It mirrored his own. Then she disappeared. Mike halted to a stop, chest heaving, hands trembling. The market roared around him, indifferent to his loss, indifferent to the moment that had almost rewritten everything. He sank against a post, heart pounding, torn between devastation and hope. She had run, yes—but she was real. She’ s still alive. She had looked at him, and he had seen her. That was enough. For now.
He let himself breathe, long and slow, because somewhere out there, in the tangle of streets and stalls, the red string of fate was still pulling them closer. And he knew, with a certainty that cut through the ache in his chest, that it wouldn’t let them stay apart for long.
Eleven ran into the narrow alley near her home, breath ragged, chest burning, hair tangled by the wind. Her coat hung loose around her shoulders, like it might slip off if she slowed down. She pressed her palms against the cold stone wall, trying to steady herself, trying to stop her heart from breaking open. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Mike wasn’t supposed to know she was here. She wasn’t supposed to see him—he wasn’t supposed to see her. It felt wrong in every way, like she had broken a rule the universe had set just for them. Guilt wrapped tight around her, sharp and suffocating. But underneath it was fear. Real fear. The kind that made her hands shake. What if he knew she ran on purpose? What if he understood that she had chosen to leave him—Hawkins—everything?
Eight years ago, she had vanished to protect him. And now, seeing his face again, even for seconds, made that old choice feel unbearably heavy. The grief she carried for years dissolved the moment their eyes met. Just like that, the ache was gone, replaced by something softer. Warmer. Longing. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold ground, knees pulled to her chest. God, she missed him. She missed the way his presence felt like home. The way one look from him makes the world quieter, safer. For a heartbeat in the market, it felt like the distance between them didn’t exist at all. But reality came back fast and cruel. Her happiness would cost Mike his safety. She couldn’t let that happen. So she ran. Again. Just like before. Leaving him standing there, alone in the crowd, wondering if he had imagined her. The thought made her chest ache. Guilt pressed against her throat until it hurt to breathe. She thought about leaving Háifoss. Going somewhere else. Somewhere he would never find her. But then she thought of her life here—the farm animals she had learned to care for, the quiet mornings, the soil under her nails. The small garden she built with her own hands, filled with yellow and purple flowers that bloomed every spring. She wiped her eyes and stood slowly. No. She couldn’t run anymore. If fate wanted her here, then she would stay. Even if it hurts. Even if longing followed her everywhere like a shadow. Because for the first time in eight years, Mike was close—not in memory, not in dreams, but in the same town, breathing the same air. And maybe staying was its own kind of courage.
Eleven lay still in her room, staring at the ceiling as memories surfaced uninvited. She thought of Kali. Of that quiet night when her sister finally admitted the truth—that dying had never been the solution. Kali had told her about Hopper’s words in the Upside Down, how he believed there was another way. A way where Eleven lived. A way where she didn’t have to disappear to save everyone. Because she wasn’t alone. She had never been alone. She was surrounded by people who loved her—who would fight for her, protect her, bring her back to safety every single time. “I realized it too late.” Kali had said, voice trembling but certain. “You don’t have to die to end the pain.” It was the last thing they talked about. The memory ached, but it didn’t crush her. Not tonight. Eleven sat up and reached for the blindfold. The familiar fabric rested gently over her eyes as she turned on the TV, the static filling the room like white noise for her thoughts. She focused. Breathed. Then the sound faded. Darkness swallowed everything. She was in the void. At first, it was empty—endless and quiet. Then she saw him. Mike sat on his bed, shoulders slumped, voice soft as he spoke to the air like it could hear him. Like she could hear him. He talked about understanding her, about how brave she was, about how he would wait until she was ready. Eleven’s chest tightened. Tears streamed down her face, warm against the cold of the void. She pressed a hand to her mouth, silent, overwhelmed by the love in his words. He believed her. He always had. She felt it then—his intention, clear and gentle. The way he stood later, the way his steps carried him toward the waterfalls, drawn there by something he didn’t fully understand. By her. The void began to loosen its grip. Eleven pulled the blindfold away, breathing hard, heart steady in a way it hadn’t been in years.
She understood now. Running hadn’t been the only way. It never was. Love wasn’t something she needed to protect people from—it was something she could stand in. She was ready. Ready to stop watching from the dark. Ready to be seen. Eleven stepped outside into the cold night air and followed the sound of rushing water. The waterfalls roared in the distance, powerful and alive, just like the feeling blooming in her chest. For the first time in eight years, she didn’t turn away. She went to meet him.
Mike was left standing in the middle of the market, the noise crashing back into him all at once. Laughter, footsteps, voices in languages he barely understood. She was gone. Again. Slipping past him like she always had, like she was made of something he could never quite hold onto. Sadness settled deep in his chest, heavy and dull. Desperation followed close behind—not the loud kind, but the quiet ache of being almost there. He rubbed a hand over his face, breathing out slowly. Part of him wanted to chase the feeling, to search every street until night fell. But another part of him understood. She wasn’t ready. And somehow, that knowledge didn’t break him. It hurt, yes—but it made sense. It always had.
Mike walked back to his cabin with slow steps, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. The room felt emptier than usual, the silence louder. Then he felt it. That familiar warmth. That quiet pull in his chest. His head snapped up, heart racing. For one hopeful second, he thought she might be standing there, framed by the doorway, real and impossible. But there was nothing. Just wooden walls and shadows stretching in the low light. Still, he spoke. “I get it.” Mike said softly, voice steady despite the ache behind it. “I really do.” The presence didn’t fade. “You’re brave” he continued. “You always have been. Stronger than anyone I know.” He swallowed, eyes stinging. “If running is how you keep people safe… then I understand why you did it.” He let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “I don’t blame you. Not now. Not ever.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “When you’re ready… we can meet. Just talk. No pressure. I’ll wait. I’ve been waiting this long anyway.” The warmth lingered a moment longer, like an answer he didn’t need to hear out loud.
That night, Mike walked to the waterfalls. The air was cold, sharp against his skin, the sound of rushing water drowning out everything else. He sat on a rock, knees drawn close, looking up at the stars scattered across the sky. They felt closer here. He watched the water fall endlessly, powerful and beautiful, and for the first time since the market, his chest loosened. He believed in her. In her choices. In the way she loved by protecting, even when it hurt. And somewhere in the dark, beneath the same stars, he knew she could feel it too.
It was a quiet night. The moon shone brightly above them, as stars scattered across the sky. The waterfalls roared below, steady and endless, like the earth itself was breathing.
Mike Wheeler sat on a rock near the edge, knees pulled to his chest, eyes lifted toward the sky. He looked peaceful in a way Eleven had never seen before—tired, yes, but calm. Eleven climbed slowly, carefully, her boots crunching softly against the gravel. When she finally saw him clearly, her breath steadied. Her heart no longer felt like it was trying to escape her chest. She took one step, then another, letting the distance between them close little by little. She stopped when she heard his voice. “I knew you would come.” Mike stood, slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might make her disappear. When he turned to face her, tears visible on his cheeks—but he was smiling. Relief and happiness tangled together on his face in a way that made Eleven’s chest ache. “I felt you” he said quietly. “All night. I just… trusted it was you.” Eleven swallowed hard. “I’m sorry” she whispered. “I ran away” “I know” Mike replied gently. “And I know why.” That was all it took. Mike crossed the last bit of space between them and pulled her into his arms. The hug was long, grounding. Eleven pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat—proof that this wasn’t the void, wasn’t a dream. “I’m here” she murmured, voice breaking. “I know” Mike said, holding her tighter, like he was afraid to let go again. They stayed like that for a long time, five minutes that felt like eight years collapsing into something softer. When they finally pulled away, Mike rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, smiling through tears. Before Eleven could speak, Mike leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was full—of waiting, of longing, of love that had never faded. Eleven melted into it, hands clutching his jacket, heart finally at rest. When they pulled back, Mike laughed quietly, almost disbelieving. “I miss you” he said, voice trembling. “I miss you so much.” He cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing away her tears. “I love you, El. I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.” Eleven smiled through her tears. “I love you too” she said. “I always did.” Behind them, the waterfalls roared on, stars burning brightly above—witnesses to a love that survived time, distance, and silence. This time, they didn’t let go.
It was five in the morning when Eleven woke up. Her hair was a mess, tangled against the pillow. Her eyes were red, still sore from crying the night before—but this time, the ache wasn’t painful. It was light. She remembered coming home with Mike, hands never letting go of each other like they were afraid the night might take him away. They cried—quietly, shakily—laughing through it, pressing foreheads together in the doorway of her house. They talked for hours, sitting on the floor, backs against the wall. About what to do next. About telling the others. About waiting a little while. But one thing was certain. They would never be separated again.
She remembered the walk home from the waterfalls—the cold air, the sound of their footsteps syncing naturally. “I was scared you wouldn’t come” Mike admitted softly.
“I was scared you would” Eleven replied, honestly, smiling sadly. He squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you did.” When they reached her door, neither of them moved at first. The night felt fragile, like glass. “I don’t want to leave” Mike said. “So stay.” Eleven whispered. The kiss that followed was slow and sure, filled with all the waiting they had done. One kiss turned into another, softer, deeper—until words weren’t needed anymore. They held each other like they were relearning something sacred, something familiar. The world narrowed down to warmth, breath, and the quiet comfort of finally being together. Their night ended like that—close, safe, together.
Now, in the early morning, Eleven slipped out of bed and walked into the kitchen. She stopped. Mike stood by the stove, hair messy, sleeves rolled up, flipping something that smelled warm and comforting. Eggs. Toast. Something faintly burnt. “You cook?” Eleven asked softly, surprised—and a little amused. Mike turned, startled, then smiled when he saw her. “Uh—yeah” he chuckled. “College dorm does that to you. You either learn, or you starve.” She walked closer, leaning against the counter. “I didn’t know.” “There’s a lot you didn’t know” he said gently, glancing at her. “We have time.” That made her smile. They sat together at the small table, knees brushing, sharing food off the same plate. It was simple. Quiet. Perfect. Mike reached for her hand without thinking, thumb tracing slow circles like he’d done a thousand times before. “Good morning” he said. Eleven squeezed his hand back. “Good morning.” For the first time in eight years, the future didn’t feel frightening. It felt like breakfast at dawn.
When the clock hit eight, Eleven was already pulling on her jacket and tying her hair back. The morning light spilled through the windows, pale and gentle. Mike sat on the edge of the bed watching her, chin resting in his hand like he still couldn’t believe she was real. “You’re leaving already?” he asked, surprised. “I work” Eleven said simply, smiling. “You come with me.” He blinked. “Like—right now?” She nodded. “Yes.” Mike laughed, standing quickly. “Okay. Okay. Lead the way.”
They walked side by side toward the farm, the air crisp, their hands brushing until Mike finally laced his fingers with hers like it was instinct. He glanced around at the open land, the quiet. “So… this is where you work?” he asked. “Yes” Eleven replied. “I like it. It’s peaceful. The animals don’t ask questions.” Mike smiled softly. “That makes sense.” She looked at him, curious. “You don’t mind?” “Mind?” He shook his head. “El, I love this. I love you here.” Her grip on his hand tightened just a little. As they arrived, the old man’s wife stepped out of the barn, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled warmly at Eleven, then paused when she noticed Mike standing just behind her. “Hver er sá strákur á bak við þig?” (Who is that boy behind you?) she asked, eyes kind but curious. Eleven didn’t hesitate. She smiled—bright, sure. “Kærasti minn.” (My boyfriend.) Mike didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone. The woman’s smile widened as she looked at him, and Mike straightened, suddenly nervous. “Uh—hi” he said politely, offering an awkward wave. She chuckled and nodded approvingly. “They like you” Eleven whispered as they walked past. Mike leaned closer. “I’ll take it.” They spent four hours at the farm, and somehow it felt like minutes. Eleven showed Mike how to feed the pigs, laughing when one nudged his leg too hard. “They’re aggressive. ” Mike said seriously. “They are hungry.” Eleven corrected, amused. The chickens startled him when they fluttered too close, and Eleven laughed so hard she had to steady herself against him. “You’re brave.” she teased. “I fought monsters.” Mike defended. “This is different.” The old man and his wife watched them from a distance, whispering and smiling. “Eins og hjón” (Like a married couple) the old man said knowingly.
On the way home, Mike insisted on bringing her to his place. “It’s not fancy” he warned. “Or clean in a normal way.” Eleven just laughed at him. The cabin was small, cluttered with books and notes, half-empty mugs and folded clothes stacked neatly in corners. “I’m sorry.” Mike said quickly. “I didn’t expect—” Eleven smiled at him. “I like it. It’s you.” That seemed to undo him a little. He cooked dinner while she sat at the counter, watching him move around the kitchen. “So,” Mike said, trying to sound casual, “if this burns, pretend it’s supposed to.” Eleven laughed, really laughed—head thrown back, eyes bright. Mike froze for a second, just staring. “What?” she asked. “I missed that.” he said softly. “Your laugh.” Dinner was warm and simple. Mike told a few jokes—bad ones. “If the others were here.” Eleven said, smiling, “Max would make fun of you.” Mike grinned. “Yeah. She’d never let me live.” As they ate, Mike hesitated, then spoke. “Would it be okay… if I moved in with you?” Eleven paused. Fear flickered in her chest—but it passed quickly. “Yes.” she said. “I don’t want to lose you again.” Mike reached across the table, holding her hand. “You won’t.” They talked about the party, about Dustin’s never-ending energy, Lucas’ seriousness, Will’s quiet understanding. “They would be shocked.” Mike said, smiling. “But happy. Really happy.” Eleven nodded. “Hopper?” Mike’s smile softened. “He and Joyce… they’re married. They talk about you all the time.” Her eyes filled. “Do you think… could it be like that for us too?” “WHAT?” Mike blurted, too loud, making her jump. He froze, then laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I mean—sorry.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “I want that.” he said earnestly. “I want to marry you. I want us to be happy. Free.” Eleven smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Me too.” They sat there, hands intertwined, the world finally quiet. Happy.
It had already been a week since Mike moved into Eleven’s cabin. At first, it felt strange—sharing space, sharing mornings, sharing silence. But the strangeness faded quickly, replaced by something easy. Natural. Mike followed Eleven to the farm every day, boots muddy, sleeves rolled up like he belonged there. The pigs recognized him now, snorting impatiently when he was late. “They like you” Eleven told him one morning. Mike eyed the pigs warily. “I think they just like food.” “Still counts.” she said, smiling.
After work, Eleven knelt in her garden, fingers deep in the soil, humming softly to herself. Mike would sit nearby, watching her tend to the yellow and purple flowers that had grown fuller, brighter under her care. “It’s beautiful.” he said often. “You say that every time.” Eleven replied. “Because it’s true.” Mike answered. “You made all this.” She always blushed at that.
Weeks passed quietly, gently. Nancy called sometimes, voice careful but warm.
“You still okay out there?” “Yeah.” Mike said, glancing at Eleven across the room. “I’m really okay.” The party checked in too—Lucas pretending not to worry, Max teasing him about becoming a “European farmer” Dustin demanding postcards, Will listens quietly, understanding more than he said. Mike sent postcards home, brief but reassuring. I’m safe. I’m happy. Don’t worry. And in all that time, he kept Eleven safe too—hidden from Hawkins, from the past, from anyone who might take this life away from her.
By the time a month passed, the town had noticed. People smiled when they saw them together at the market. The old man and his wife teased them relentlessly. “þið tvö komið alltaf saman.” ( You two come together always.) the wife said one afternoon. “Eins og þú sért þreyttur.” (Like you are tied.) Mike laughed. “Held að við séum.” (Guess we are.) Eleven squeezed his hand.
Half a year passed before they realized how deeply settled they were. Six months of shared mornings and quiet nights. Mike cooked most evenings now, humming as he worked. “Dinner’s almost ready.” he’d call out. Eleven would appear in the doorway, dirt still on her hands. “It smells good.” “High praise.” Mike joked. They shopped at the market together, carrying baskets side by side, bumping shoulders like it was instinct. Her garden bloomed brighter each day, colors vivid and alive. The town loved her—loved them. No questions. No fear. Just acceptance. One evening, as the sun dipped low, Eleven leaned against Mike on their porch. “We are happy.” she said, more like a realization than a statement. Mike kissed her temple. “Yeah. We really are.” And for once, happiness didn’t feel temporary. It felt like home.
It was June 7, 1995—Eleven’s birthday. Mike woke up before her, careful not to move too much. He slipped out of bed quietly, glancing back once to make sure she was still asleep. Her hair was spread across the pillow, face peaceful in a way that still amazed him. He smiled to himself and went to the kitchen. The pancakes weren’t perfect—one was a little too brown, another slightly misshapen—but he stacked them anyway, drizzled with syrup, a few berries on top like he’d seen in magazines. He was just setting the plate on the table when he heard soft footsteps. Eleven shuffled into the kitchen, eyes half-closed, still wrapped in sleep. She stopped when she saw him sitting there, grinning like he was holding in a secret. “Good morning.” she mumbled. Mike stood up immediately. “Happy birthday!” he said, voice warm and excited. Before she could respond, he kissed her gently on the lips, then pressed another kiss to her cheek. Eleven blinked, processing, then smiled—slow, bright, real. “It’s my birthday?” she asked softly. “Very much so.” Mike said. “And you’re not going to work today.” She tilted her head. “But the farm—” “I already talked to them.” he said proudly. “You’re officially off-duty.” Eleven laughed, the sound light and surprised. “Thank you.” They ate pancakes together, sitting close, sharing bites, Mike watching her like this moment was the best gift he’d ever gotten.
They spent the day at the waterfalls. The sky was clear, the air warm but gentle. Mike spread out a picnic blanket while Eleven took off her shoes, dipping her toes into the cool grass. “This is perfect.” she said, sitting beside him. “I know.” Mike replied. “You deserve a perfect day.” They lay back, watching clouds drift lazily overhead. Eleven pointed at one. “That looks like a demogorgon.” Mike squinted. “I was going to say duck, but okay.” She laughed and nudged him with her shoulder. They talked about everything and nothing—about the town, the flowers in her garden, silly memories from Hawkins. At one point, Eleven rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Thank you for staying.” she said quietly. Mike kissed the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere.” As the sun began to set, painting the sky in soft gold, Mike squeezed her hand. “Happy birthday, El.” She smiled up at him, eyes shining. “It’s the best one.” And for the first time in her life, Eleven believed it.
A month passed quietly, wrapped in routine and love. Their days became simple in the best way. Mornings at the farm, afternoons in the garden, evenings in the kitchen. Mike taught Eleven how to cook—slowly, patiently. “Not too much salt.” he said once, watching closely. Eleven frowned in concentration. “How do you know?” “You just… feel it” Mike replied. She nodded seriously. “Like powers?” Mike laughed. “Exactly, like powers.”
One evening, Eleven came home pale and shaking. “I’m okay.” she insisted, even as her voice trembled. Mike wasn’t convinced. He guided her to bed, tucking the blankets around her like she might disappear if he didn’t. When she finally fell asleep, he slipped out quietly and went to the market. He bought vegetables. Chicken. Herbs. And then he saw the ring. Small. Simple. Perfect. It felt like fate nudging him forward. That night, as the soup simmered, Mike sat beside her bed, holding her hand while she slept. “Please get better.” he whispered. She did. Slowly. Softly.
By July 27, 1995, Mike was a bundle of nerves. The old man and his wife helped without hesitation. “Hún þarf frídag.” (She needs a day off.) the wife said kindly. “Við munum sjá um allt.” (We will handle everything.) That morning, Mike tried to sound casual. “Want to have a picnic?” he asked. “Since you’re free today.” Eleven smiled. “I would like that.” At the waterfalls, they spread the blanket, shared sandwiches, laughed at nothing. Still—Eleven noticed. “Why are you nervous?” she said gently. “I’m not.” Mike said too fast. She tilted her head. “You are.” Mike stood up suddenly. “I—” he sighed, “Wait here.” He picked yellow and purple flowers, weaving them together clumsily. “A crown.” he said, placing it on her head. “That should do it.” She smiled, turning toward the waterfalls. And then— “Eleven.” She turned back. Mike was on one knee. “I love you” he said, voice shaking. “I’ve loved you in every lifetime I’ve known you. I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want a life without you in it.” He held out the ring. “Will you marry me?” Eleven covered her mouth, tears spilling freely. “Yes.” she cried. “Yes, of course—yes.” They laughed and cried at the same time as he slid the ring onto her finger.
The wedding happened at the farm. No grand ceremony. Just the people who loved them. The old man cleared his throat. “Love is choosing each other every day.” Mike took Eleven’s hands. “I promise to stay.” he said. “To listen. To wait. To love you even when the world gets loud.” Eleven smiled through tears. “I promise to be brave.” she said softly. “And to never run away again.” They kissed as the town applauded, the animals quiet as if they understood.
Mike sent postcards that night. I’m married.
The phone rang almost immediately. “MICHAEL WHEELER” Karen’s voice cried, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE MARRIED?” Mike smiled. “I’m happy, Mom.” There was silence—then, “Bring her home someday.” “I will.” he promised.
That night, back in their cabin, everything felt new and familiar at once. They lay together, hands intertwined, laughing softly at their own nervousness. “We’re married.” Eleven whispered, amazed. Mike kissed her forehead. “Yeah. We are.” They spent their first night like that—close, safe, finally home. And this time, nothing was taken from them.
A month after their marriage, something shifted. At first, it was small. Eleven pushing her plate away halfway through meals. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of cooking oil. “Does this taste weird to you?” she asked one morning, staring at her soup. Mike tasted it. “It tastes like… soup?” She sighed. “Then it’s me.” Some days she was dizzy. Some mornings she stayed curled in bed longer than usual, hand resting on her stomach without realizing it. The day she fainted at the farm, Mike felt his heart stop. He caught her just before she hit the ground, her name breaking out of his mouth like a prayer. “El—El—hey, stay with me—” The old man’s wife knelt beside them, calm and knowing. She checked Eleven’s pulse, smiled softly, and looked up at Mike. “Hún er í lagi” (She’s fine) she said. “Hún er bara ólétt.” (She’s just pregnant.) Mike blinked. Once. Twice.
“…What?”
That night, Mike sat on the edge of their bed, hands trembling. “We’re—we’re having a baby?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. Eleven nodded, eyes shining. “I think so.” He laughed. Then cried. Then pulled her into his arms like the world might take her away again. “I’m going to be a dad” he said in disbelief. “You’re—oh my God, El.” She rested her forehead against his. “We’re going to be okay.”
The months passed carefully. Mike walked slower. Talked softer. Learned how to braid her hair when her back hurt too much to stand. He pressed kisses to her stomach every night. “Hi.” he whispered to the small life growing there. “I’m your dad.” Eleven watched him with a contented look.
On April 4, 1996, a few days before Mike’s birthday, the pain started. Mike paced outside the room, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white. “She’s strong.” he kept telling himself. “She’s strong.” When the midwife finally stepped out, she smiled before he could even ask. “Konan þín er óhult.” (Your wife is safe.) she said gently. “Og það sama á við um dóttur þína.” (And so is your daughter.) A daughter. Mike covered his mouth, tears spilling freely. “Can I see them?”
They named her Elena Jane Wheeler. The first months were exhausting and beautiful. Sleepless nights. Soft cries. Eleven rocking their daughter while Mike hummed songs he barely remembered from childhood. They learned together. A year passed. Elena learned how to walk—tiny, unsteady steps toward Mike’s open arms. “Come on” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” She laughed when she fell. Just like her mother.
One quiet night, Elena asleep between them, Mike noticed Eleven staring at the ceiling. “You okay?” he asked softly. She turned to him and smiled. “Yes. I was just thinking.” She hesitated. “Do you want to go back to Hawkins?” Mike was surprised. “Do you?” She nodded. “I’m ready. I want them to meet her.”
Saying goodbye was harder than she expected. The farm. The old man and his wife. The quiet town that never asked questions. The waterfalls. Eleven stood there one last time, holding Elena close. “Thank you.” she whispered. “For keeping me.” Mike wrapped an arm around her. “You can always come back.”
The airport in Hawkins was loud—rolling suitcases, overlapping voices, laughter echoing through the terminal. The party stood together in a loose circle, Dustin mid-rant about how Mike better had brought souvenirs this time. Then Dustin stopped talking. Mike was walking toward them. Time seemed to stop. “Wait—” Dustin squinted. “Is that—” “El?” Lucas whispered, his voice barely there. Max gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God.” Will couldn’t speak at all. His breath caught, eyes wide, like his heart had just stopped and started again in the same second. Then Eleven stepped fully into the light. Alive. Smiling. Real. And then they saw the baby in her arms. Holly covered her mouth with both hands. Nancy broke down instantly, tears spilling as she laughed and cried at the same time. Karen stepped forward slowly, as if afraid the moment might shatter if she moved too fast. Her hands trembled. “Michael…” she whispered, voice breaking. Mike smiled through his tears. “Mom. Dad.” He stepped aside gently. “This is Eleven. And… this is Elena. My daughter” For half a second, no one moved. Then Karen let out a sob and rushed forward, pulling all of them into her arms at once—Mike, Eleven, and the baby pressed carefully between them. “Oh” Karen cried, laughing through tears. “Oh, my God. You’re here. You’re really here.” Eleven clutched Mike’s hand as Lucas, Max, Dustin, and Will joined the hug, messy and overwhelming and perfect. Dustin sniffed loudly. “Okay, wow, this is—this is a lot. I’m crying and I hate it.” Will finally found his voice. “You’re home.” he said to Eleven, tears running freely. She smiled at him. “I am.” Mike looked around at all of them, heart full. “We’re happy. ” he said simply. Karen pulled back just enough to look at Eleven, her eyes gentle. “I can see it” she said. “Both of you.” Eleven looked down at Elena, then back at the faces she once thought she’d lost forever. They were home. Together.
The Wheeler basement felt smaller than it used to—but warmer. Everyone was crowded onto the old couch and the floor, soda cans and snacks scattered around like it was 1985 all over again. Elena was asleep in Mike’s old room—wrapped in a blanket Karen had immediately declared too thin and replaced with three more. “Okay.” Dustin said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Before we continue, I just want to say—that Mike being a dad is the most unrealistic plot twist of our lives.” Mike rolled his eyes. “You cried when you held her.” “That was allergies” Dustin said quickly. “Basement dust.” Max smirked. “You whispered ‘she’s so tiny’ like eight times.” Lucas laughed. “He really did.” Eleven smiled softly from where she sat beside Mike, her hand resting comfortably in his. She felt… safe. Seen. “So” Will said gently, eyes on Eleven. “How did you survive? After… everything?” The room quieted. Eleven took a breath. “I went far away.” she said. “Iceland. It was quiet. Cold. There were waterfalls everywhere.” “Of course there were.” Dustin muttered. “Because your life is poetic.” She smiled. “I worked on a farm. I planted flowers. Yellow and purple.” She glanced at Mike. “I learned how to live.” Mike squeezed her hand. Max leaned forward. “And you just… watched Mike from afar? All this time?” Eleven nodded. “I read his books” she admitted softly. “I knew they were for me.” Mike flushed immediately. “Okay, wow, I did not agree to be emotionally exposed like this.” Lucas grinned. “Too late, man. You wrote an entire novel about three waterfalls.” “That is metaphorical.” Mike said defensively. Dustin gasped. “Oh my God. You’re still like this.” They laughed—real laughter, the kind that felt like healing. “And Elena?” Max asked quietly. “She’s… perfect.” Eleven’s eyes softened. “She’s brave. Curious. She likes the sound of rain.” “She’s getting spoiled.” Max said immediately. “No debate.” Lucas nodded. “I call dibs on cool uncle.” “Uh no?” Dustin said. “I call dibs on favorite uncle.” Will smiled. “She’s going to be surrounded by love.” Mike looked around the room—at the people who had shaped his life, who had lost Eleven once and found her again. “She already is.” he said.
Upstairs, Elena shifted softly in her sleep. The party stayed together late into the night—talking, teasing, remembering, planning. For the first time in years, nothing felt missing.
The morning air was cool and quiet when they drove toward the cabin. Eleven sat in the passenger seat, Elena asleep in her arms, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of her jacket. She hadn’t realized she was shaking until Mike gently reached over and laced his fingers with hers. “You’re okay.” he said softly. “They’re going to be so happy to see you.” She nodded, swallowing. “I know. I’m just… scared.” Mike smiled at her, warm and steady. “You don’t have to be brave today. You’re home.” Will sat in the back, watching the trees pass by. “I missed this place.” he said quietly. “It still feels like… safety.” When the cabin finally came into view, Eleven’s breath caught. They stepped out of the car slowly. For a moment, no one moved. Then Mike nodded encouragingly, and Eleven walked forward, knocking on the door with careful, trembling hands. Footsteps. The door opened. Jonathan froze. “…El?” His voice cracked like he didn’t trust it. Eleven smiled, tears already forming. “Hi, Jonathan.” His face crumpled in disbelief. “You’re— you’re here.” he said, laughing and crying at the same time. “You’re really here.” “Who is it?” Joyce called from inside. Jonathan didn’t answer. He just stepped aside. Joyce saw her—and dropped the dish towel in her hands. “Oh” Joyce whispered. Then she ran. She wrapped Eleven in the tightest hug, sobbing openly. “I knew it” she cried. “I knew you weren’t gone. I knew.” Eleven clung to her, burying her face in Joyce’s shoulder like she had so many years ago. “I’m sorry.” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I left.” Joyce pulled back just enough to cup her face. “You’re alive.” she said firmly. “That’s all that matters.” “Hopper!” Joyce called through tears. “Jim—someone’s here!” Heavy footsteps thundered down. Hopper stopped short the second he saw her. “El.” She looked up at him, heart pounding. “Hi, Hop.” That was it. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into his arms, holding her like he’d never let go. His shoulders shook. “I got you” he murmured. “I’ve got you.” Eleven pulled back gently and looked down at Elena, who had just begun to stir. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” She lifted her slightly. “This is Elena” Eleven said softly. “She’s my daughter.” Hopper stared—then smiled through tears. “Well, hello there” he said quietly. “You got your mama’s eyes.” Mike stepped forward. “And I’m Mike. Her husband.” Hopper huffed a breathy laugh. “Yeah” he said. “I figured, you son of a bitch.” Will stepped in, smiling shyly. “Hi, Mom.” Joyce pulled him into a hug instantly. “I missed you so much.” They all stood there for a long moment—laughing, crying, holding one another—years of loss dissolving into warmth. For the first time in a long time, the cabin felt full again.
The cabin glowed warmly as evening settled in, the windows fogged slightly from the heat of cooking. The smell of stew filled the air—rich, comforting, familiar in a way that made Eleven’s chest ache in the best way.
They were all gathered around the small dining table. Elena sat in a high chair Joyce had insisted on finding in town, her tiny hands smeared with mashed vegetables as she experimented with eating more than actually succeeding. Jonathan hovered nearby with his old video camera, lens trained carefully on her. “Okay, Elena,” he said softly, smiling behind the camera, “this is for future blackmail. Say hi.” Elena blinked at the camera, then let out a delighted giggle, smacking her spoon against the tray. Joyce laughed, reaching over to wipe Elena’s cheek. “She has your smile” she said to Eleven. “And Mike’s stubbornness.” Mike raised an eyebrow. “Hey.” Joyce grinned. “I mean that lovingly.” Elena leaned forward, clearly more interested in Joyce than the food, and Joyce immediately scooped her up, settling her against her chest.
“You know,” Joyce said gently, rocking her, “your mama was the bravest little girl I ever met.” Eleven’s eyes softened. Jonathan lowered the camera for a moment. “She’s going to hear all the stories.” he said. “Every single one.” Elena yawned, resting her head against Joyce’s shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater.
Across the kitchen, Hopper stood by the stove, pretending not to watch the scene for too long. Mike stepped beside him, stirring the pot carefully. “So… you trust me with the ladle now?” Hopper snorted. “You haven’t burned the cabin down yet. That’s progress.” Mike smiled. “I learned from my mom. And… college dorm survival.” Hopper glanced at him, then nodded slowly. “You take care of them.” he said, voice rough but sincere. “Both of them.” “I will.” Mike said without hesitation. “Always.” Hopper clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder—firm. “Good.” Eleven watched them from the table, Elena now half-asleep in Joyce’s arms, and felt something settle deep inside her. This—this was what peace looked like. The cabin was full.
The past was no longer chasing them.
And for the first time, the future felt gentle.