𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐒𝐢𝐱

in total control of herself

•───⋅⋆⁺‧₊☽⛦☾₊‧⁺⋆⋅───•

𝔸𝕊 the mayor's speech droned on, Wednesday rolled his eyes, barely able to mask his disdain for the sanctimonious words about Joseph Crackstone. The crowd erupted into polite applause, but Wednesday's gaze slid to Thing, hidden behind the band, mischievously giving him a thumbs-up.

With a reluctant sigh as the band struck up its notes, he began to play, the hauntingly beautiful music wrapping around the town square. Each note carried a cold elegance, the sound distinctly his own.

From across the square, Lilith's eyes found Wednesday. She stood with Enid, their conversation fading into the background as her attention locked onto him. The way his fingers danced over the strings, coaxing out a melody both powerful and tender, pulled her in completely. There was something mesmerizing about him when he played, the intensity of his focus transforming into art.

As the music swirled, Lilith felt her heart tighten. It wasn't just the skill, but the way the music seemed to reflect a side of Wednesday few others ever saw. His usual sharp edges softened under the weight of each note, and she couldn't help but feel a warmth in her chest-a sense of quiet admiration, maybe something more.

Wednesday glanced up, just for a second, and his eyes met Lilith's. Her presence made him pause for the briefest of moments. His heart, cold and calculated, betrayed him for a second, a flicker of protectiveness flashing in his chest. The thought of Lilith getting hurt stirred something inside him, something he didn't entirely understand, but it pushed him to play with even more passion.

Lilith noticed the change. There was a depth to his playing now, a tenderness that resonated with her, making the moment between them feel private, as if the music was speaking just to her. She smiled, a soft, almost shy expression, and that was enough. Even without words, she understood him, and in return, he allowed the music to reveal what he couldn't say aloud.

In that fleeting connection, everything else melted away-the crowd, the noise, the tension-and all that remained was the silent understanding between them.

As the fire hit the water of the fountain, an eruption of flames surged, setting Joseph Crackstone's statue ablaze in a brilliant inferno. The explosion reverberated through the square, shattering the tranquil moment and sending crowds into a frenzy. Panic seized the air, and people scattered like leaves caught in a violent gust, their shouts filling the space as they fled in every direction.

But amidst the chaos, there was a strange serenity, a stillness that seemed untouched by the destruction. Wednesday remained seated, calm and unbothered, his bow gliding across the strings of his cello. The haunting notes cut through the noise, filling the air with a melody that was both chilling and captivating. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, a smirk tugging at his lips as he played, indifferent to the panic around him.