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Wednesday holds a shovel and walks in meticulous rhythm on a path she knew like the back of her hand. Which leads to a place she’d known since her first days at Nevermore. A place she’d never shown anyone—until now.
“Where are we going again?”
Wednesday halts, and then Enid bumps into her back. And somehow Enid manages to keep her limbs intact. Not because Wednesday won’t really harm her, but because she hasn’t gotten the urge yet.
…Strange.
“Woah, sorry, didn’t expect you to stop so abruptly.”
Wednesday turns sharply, now face to face with Enid, even if she had to look up slightly. “Enid. I am taking you to a… dear place of mine. Could you stop asking so many questions?”
Enid raises her hands in mock surrender, but she’s smiling, her hair catching the dying light through the trees.
The rest of the walk is wordless, save for the occasional crunch of leaves underfoot. Wednesday doesn’t mind the silence—not really—but there’s a warmth to Enid’s presence that makes the quiet feel less like isolation and more like… pause. Like holding your breath before something important.
Enid hums quietly to herself as they continue, but the hum turns into gentle whistling—tuneless, yet oddly pleasant. Wednesday doesn’t comment, but she listens.
“You’re acting more mysterious than usual,” Enid says after a while. “Which is saying something.”
“I’m always mysterious,” Wednesday replies.
“Yeah, but this feels like… a surprise. A nice one.”
Wednesday feels her grip tighten on the shovel. She doesn’t know what to do with that statement, so she lets the silence do the work again.
Eventually, they arrive.
The clearing is nestled between twisted trees and overgrown roots, moonlight filtering through like cathedral glass. In its centre, a patch of disturbed soil waits. Wednesday steps forward, lifts the shovel, and begins to dig.
There was something methodical about the act. One scoop. One breath. One kick. The repetition was grounding.
And with Enid sitting close by, not filling the silence with noise but simply existing near her… it felt less like a task and more like a ritual.
A shared one.
The ground is softer than she remembers. Damp from yesterday’s rain, rich with the scent of moss and earthworms. Each shove of the blade is clean, rhythmic—almost meditative.
This is what peace looks like, she thinks. Dirt under her boots. Enid nearby. No one else.
“You are the only person I know who would willingly follow me into the woods without asking for an explanation,” Wednesday says suddenly, without looking up from her digging.
Enid blinks. “Is that… a compliment?”
“It’s a fact. But if it were a compliment, it would be the highest kind.”
Enid’s smile twitches at the corner. She says nothing, but she tucks her hands into her sleeves to hide how warm they suddenly feel.
Enid finds a stone pillar nearby and sits, legs dangling, watching quietly at first.
Wednesday presses another line into the earth. The sound of the shovel scraping through the wet dirt is steady. Intentional.
“There’s something sacred about unearthing,” Wednesday mutters, half to herself.
Enid tilts her head. “Sacred?”
“It’s intimate. You learn what the earth hides. Every layer a secret.” She pauses. “Grave digging is the only honest form of archaeology.”
“Do you think if you dug deep enough we’ll reach hell?” Enid asks, feet kicking at the air. Her voice is light, but her gaze is focused on the hole slowly forming in front of her.
Wednesday presses the shovel down, gives it a kick, and lifts.
“Don’t be foolish, Enid. Hell isn’t real. Death is simply another form of living. I should know.”
Enid hums thoughtfully, like she’s not sure whether to agree or tease her for being dramatic. “...How? Oh, is it because you’re a…?”
“A raven,” Wednesday supplies flatly. “A psychic who sees only morbid visions. Forever destined to be alone, unable to trust anyone again.”
There’s almost pride in the way she says it. Almost.
It’s easier to frame herself in tragedy. She wears it like armour—because if she’s already doomed, then there’s nothing to lose.
But Enid has a way of picking at the cracks. Not to break her open, but just to… look inside.
“And no, it’s not because I’m psychic that I know. It’s because my family holds a séance every month. Sadly, I won’t be able to make it this month or the next.”
There’s a beat. Then two.
Wednesday doesn’t stop digging.
But Enid’s voice shifts—quieter now, less teasing. “Alone… forever?”
Wednesday recognises that tone instantly. The same one Enid uses when they pass a stray animal in town. Soft, helpless in a way she never lets herself be around anyone else.
But Enid doesn’t stay quiet. She never does.
“I would be with you, Wednesday.” It comes out quickly. Too quickly. She hesitates. “That is… if you’ll let me.”
The words hang there. Not loud. Not dramatic. But they fall into the pit with more weight than any shovel of dirt.
Wednesday’s breath catches—not that she’d ever admit to something so pathetic as breath-catching. Her hands still, fingers clenched tight around the wooden handle.
Wednesday pauses.
Not a dramatic stop—but just a hitch in motion, the kind only someone really paying attention would notice.
The hole isn’t very deep yet, but somehow, it feels like she’s already unearthed something. Something harder to bury again.
It’s… soft. That voice. That confession. That look in Enid’s eyes.
Unusual. Confusing. Terrifying.
Wednesday clears her throat. “I brought you here because I thought you’d enjoy watching me dig up dirt. Not… get emotional about it.”
Enid doesn’t answer right away. She tugs at the end of her sleeve, gaze dropping to the shifting soil between Wednesday’s boots.
“Yeah, well…” she starts, then falters. “It’s not really about the dirt. Or the hole. It’s… everything else.”
Her voice is soft. Honest. Like she’s still figuring out how much of herself is safe to say aloud.
Enid snorts, but the smile she gives is all soft and warm. “Maybe I can’t help it. You’re weirdly romantic when you’re holding a shovel.”
“Romanticism is for the weak,” Wednesday says instinctively.
But the dirt under her fingernails, the soft ache in her arms, the way Enid’s laughter doesn’t echo but settles in the air around them—it feels like something else.
She glances at the hole. “Still,” she adds. “I suppose there’s something… poetic about it.”
“Grave digging as a love language?” Enid teases.
“You’re lucky I tolerate you,” Wednesday replies, but it comes out without bite.
“But you’re not disagreeing.”
“I am considering burying you instead.”
“And yet, I’m still here.” Enid hops off the pillar and pads over to her, crouching by the edge of the pit. “Guess that says something, doesn’t it?”
Wednesday looks at her. Really looks.
She reaches into her pocket, pulls out something small, wrapped in black cloth.
“What’s that?” Enid tilts her head.
“A bone,” Wednesday says plainly. “I was going to bury it here. As a marker.”
“A marker for what?”
Wednesday meets her gaze. “For something important. You.”
Then: “It says you have poor survival instincts.”
But her hands pause on the shovel again. Just for a second.
Enid watches her, not saying anything.
Then, she sits back on her heels, brushing her hands together like she’s marking the moment too. “Guess that makes us grave official,” she murmurs, a grin twitching at her lips.
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “That pun alone is grounds for exile.”
And yet, she doesn’t move to bury the bone just yet.
Instead, she lets it rest in her palm—held, not hidden.
And Enid stays, close enough to touch, close enough to stay.