The remote felt heavy in Wade's calloused hand. He scrolled through Netflix's endless rows of thumbnails, each promising escape from his silent apartment. Outside, rain streaked the windows. His eyes landed on a black-and-white image: a pale girl with braids staring dead ahead. "Wednesday," the title card read. He clicked play. Forty-five minutes later, Wade was slumped against the couch cushions. Enid Sinclair's laugh—bright, unguarded—echoed from the screen as she dragged Wednesday toward some gothic mischief. Wade traced the curve of Enid's smile with his thumb. Youthful skin, that effortless vibrancy. A sharp pang twisted in his chest. What would it feel like to move through the world like that? Desired. Unburdened. He drifted off to the sound of crackling thunder. He woke to the scent of lavender and old wood. Rain still fell, but it drummed against leaded glass panes now. His vision swam, then focused on slender fingers resting on a quilted bedspread. N...
