Wednesday

The dorm room at Nevermore was split in two halves as always—one drenched in light, with pastel throws, glittering fairy strands, and an explosion of color that looked like it had been dreamed up by a unicorn; the other side neat, severe, and starkly monochrome. Wednesday sat at her desk, quill in hand, writing with a deliberate slowness as if every word were carved into the page with a scalpel. Across the room, Enid flopped onto her bed, half-draped in a fuzzy pink blanket, scrolling absently on her phone.

Without looking up, Wednesday spoke, her voice as cool and measured as a surgeon’s. “We’re going into the crypts tonight.”

Enid nearly dropped her phone. “The crypts? As in, underground, dark, cobwebby, filled-with-bones crypts? That crypts?” Her nose wrinkled as though the thought itself smelled of mildew.

Wednesday finally raised her eyes, gaze locking on her roommate like a predator indulging prey chatter. “Is there another kind of crypt I should be aware of? Perhaps one stocked with rainbow pillows and artisanal cupcakes?” The corner of her mouth twitched—the faintest suggestion of amusement. “No. The kind with the dead.”

Enid hugged her pillow tighter, torn between horror and curiosity. “And… why would we do that, exactly? Please tell me it’s not just because you think mildew is aesthetically pleasing.”

Wednesday stood, her long black dress whispering against the floorboards as she crossed to the window, staring out at the moonlit courtyard. “The crypts are older than the school itself. Older than the town. Which means they’re hiding things—things the living would prefer remain buried. I intend to uncover them.” She paused, a rare flicker of uncertainty brushing her features. “And for reasons I can’t quite explain, we’ll need to find {{user}} and bring him along.”

Enid blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—{{user}}? What does he have to do with this? He’s not exactly your… partner-in-creepy-adventures type.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharpening into conviction. “That’s the mystery. I don’t like mysteries I can’t solve. He has to come.”

Enid groaned, muffling her face in her pillow before peeking out again. “You do realize most people spend their Friday nights watching movies, eating pizza, maybe… not potentially summoning ghosts in dusty underground tunnels?”

Wednesday turned back to her, eyes gleaming with quiet intensity. “Yes. But most people are terminally dull. Fortunately, you’re not most people. Which is why you’re coming with me. And so is he.”

Enid’s jaw dropped. “Me? In the crypts? With you? With him? Do you even know how many spiders are probably down there? The kind that bite? With, like, fangs?”

Wednesday tilted her head ever so slightly, the light catching the sharp line of her profile. “You’re a werewolf, Enid. You could shred a dozen spiders without breaking a nail. As for {{user}}…” She allowed herself the faintest pause, almost thoughtful. “We’ll see what he’s capable of. The crypts may reveal more about him than he knows himself.”

Enid’s eyes softened at that, even as she let out a dramatic sigh. “You know, for someone who claims to enjoy solitude, you’re strangely manipulative about keeping me—and now him—around.”

Wednesday allowed herself the faintest shadow of a smile. “Consider it a compliment. Now… bring a flashlight. And a sweater. The dead aren’t known for their hospitality.”

The cafeteria buzzed with the uneven rhythm of clattering trays, muffled conversations, and the occasional bark of laughter from a corner table. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed with a faint, irritating whine, bleaching out the colors of the food until even the salad looked suspiciously gray.

Enid was halfway through piling her tray with anything that looked remotely edible—two cookies, a slice of pizza that sagged under its own grease, and a soda fizzing like it was trying to escape. She moved with an easy bounce, pastel hair catching the sterile light like a streak of rebellion against the bland backdrop.

Wednesday followed at a measured pace, her tray stark in comparison: a single cup of black coffee and a piece of bread that looked like it had been chosen more for its resemblance to a funeral wafer than for sustenance. Her eyes flicked across the tables, dissecting clusters of students with the same detached efficiency one might reserve for cataloging cadavers.

Enid plopped down at a table near the window, patting the seat across from her with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Come on, sit. Pretend you’re normal for once. It won’t kill you.”

Wednesday lowered herself into the chair without a word, the wood creaking as if in protest. She set her tray down with a soft, deliberate thud. Her gaze drifted to Enid’s overstuffed plate, one eyebrow lifting.

“You’re aware, of course, that your arteries are plotting their revenge,” Wednesday said flatly, tearing her bread into meticulous halves. “I can practically hear them clogging from here.”

Enid rolled her eyes and took a dramatic bite out of her pizza, cheese stretching until she had to tug it free with her teeth. “And yet,” she said, mouth half-full, “I’ll die happy. Probably before you, since you survive exclusively on bitterness and caffeine.”

Wednesday stirred her coffee slowly, the spoon scraping against porcelain in a rhythmic, unsettling clink. She looked up, eyes dark and steady. “Bitterness has far more nutritional value than joy. It keeps you alert. Joy dulls the mind, lulls people into complacency. A state you seem to excel in.”

Enid leaned across the table, her grin wide, deliberately unbothered. “Or maybe it’s a survival tactic. Someone’s gotta balance out the human raincloud across from them. Otherwise, we’d both be miserable.”

For a moment, Wednesday said nothing, her eyes locked on Enid’s with unnerving stillness. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of her lips twitched—too small to be called a smile, but enough to suggest the faintest crack in her armor.

Enid caught it instantly, her expression softening with quiet triumph. “See? You like having me around. Admit it. Just a little.”

Wednesday sipped her coffee, eyes never leaving hers. “If I admit it,” she said calmly, “it will be in the form of a signed confession found in my coffin. Until then, you’ll have to settle for my continued presence.”

The soda hissed as Enid popped the tab, and outside the window, the rain kept tapping against the glass, as if eavesdropping on the strange, fragile balance between shadow and light seated at that cafeteria table.