Chapter Text
A few days after opening night, the house finally went quiet again. Suitcases disappeared from the hallway. Guest rooms returned to their original purpose. The last of the visiting family hugged their goodbyes into Enid’s shoulders and promised to come back before the run ended, though everyone knew that schedules and distance made that unlikely. Still, the sentiment lingered. When the front door closed for the final time, Enid stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob, breathing out slowly. Then life resumed. Not with drama. Not with fireworks.
With routine.
The show settled into its rhythm quickly. Four nights a week, Enid’s days blurred into a steady pattern of motion and muscle memory. Wake up early. Coffee. Stretching in the living room while one of the cats sat directly on her mat like a living weight. Teaching ballet classes mid morning, patiently correcting tiny feet and reminding children to point their toes and breathe through nerves. Quick lunch. Then straight to the theater. Rehearse. Warm up. Tape toes. Sew loose ribbons. Run sections with the corps. Change costumes. Perform. Applause. Curtain call. Exhaustion.
Repeat.
It was demanding. Physically brutal some days. Emotionally draining on others.
And yet Enid thrived in it.
There was something grounding about knowing exactly what her body was meant to do. Something deeply satisfying about walking onto the stage each night and becoming Aurora again. Grace returned to her bones. Strength settled into her muscles. She felt steady in herself in a way she hadn’t in years. Wednesday watched it happen quietly. She sat at the kitchen table some mornings, coffee untouched, observing Enid stretch and prepare, taking mental notes the way she always did. She never interrupted. Never hovered. But she made sure Enid had clean towels ready when she came home sore. Ice packs in the freezer. Extra protein in the fridge. Warm blankets waiting on the couch.
One afternoon, while Enid was at rehearsal and Agnes was buried in homework at the dining table, Wednesday found the review.
She hadn’t been looking for it.
She had been researching something unrelated when the theater’s name appeared on the side of the screen. Curiosity tugged at her before she could stop herself.
She clicked.
The article was long. Detailed. Professional.
Wednesday read it once. Then again.
They praised the production as a whole. The costumes. The lighting. The orchestration. But her eyes kept returning to one paragraph.
The reviewer wrote about Enid’s performance with surprising depth. About the warmth she brought to Aurora. About her precision, her control, her emotional clarity. About how she carried both softness and power without letting one diminish the other.
Wednesday felt something unfamiliar tighten in her chest.
Pride, sharp and heavy and undeniable.
When Enid came home later that night, hair damp with sweat and curls escaping her bun, Wednesday handed her the tablet without explanation.
Enid blinked, confused, then started reading.
Her hand flew to her mouth halfway through.
"They said that about me?" she whispered.
Wednesday nodded simply. "They were correct."
Enid squealed and launched herself onto the couch beside her, nearly crushing Wednesday under sheer enthusiasm.
"Oh my god, Wednesday, they liked it. They actually liked it."
Wednesday allowed herself a small smile. "I never doubted that they would."
While Enid’s world revolved around rehearsal halls and studios, Wednesday’s moved in quieter but equally significant ways.
Her newest novel released quietly in early April.
Not with the explosive hype of her earlier works, but with steady interest. The reception was different this time. Less shock value. More thoughtful discussion. Readers talked about character depth. Emotional weight. The subtle shift in her voice.
Wednesday pretended she didn’t read the commentary.
She read all of it.
More importantly, she finally sent off the manuscript Enid had dubbed her masterpiece.
She had hesitated before clicking send. Fingers hovering above the keys longer than necessary. It wasn’t fear of rejection. It was something stranger. Vulnerability.
This story was different.
It wasn’t just darkness. It wasn’t just death. It was grief and healing and longing woven into shadows instead of hiding behind them.
It was her.
When she finally submitted it, she closed the laptop and sat in silence for a long time.
Enid noticed immediately.
She didn’t ask questions. She just walked over, kissed Wednesday’s temple, and whispered, "You did it."
Agnes’s world shifted too.
College suited her in ways none of them had fully expected.
She came home buzzing with stories about photography assignments, critique sessions, strange classmates, and late night editing marathons. She spent hours hunched over her desk sorting through images, adjusting lighting, muttering to herself about framing and contrast.
She was tired, yes.
But she was happy.
Wednesday noticed the change first. Agnes stood taller now. Spoke with more confidence. Took up space without apologizing for it.
One evening, while Enid was at rehearsal and the house was quiet, Agnes sat on the couch beside Wednesday, laptop balanced on her knees.
"I got a ninety eight on my last project," Agnes said softly.
Wednesday looked up from her book. "As expected."
Agnes smiled anyway.
By mid April, the three of them had fallen into a strange but comforting harmony.
Some nights Enid came home past ten, feet aching, body humming with exhaustion. Wednesday waited up regardless, sitting on the couch with a book she wasn’t really reading. Agnes usually dozed nearby with a cat curled against her chest.
They rarely talked much on those nights.
They didn’t need to.
Other evenings were slower. Shared dinners. Agnes showing them her newest photos. Enid rambling excitedly about something a student did in class. Wednesday listening more than speaking, but always present.
The cats ruled the house without opposition.
One claimed Wednesday’s office chair exclusively. The other preferred Enid’s laundry basket for reasons no one understood. They shed everywhere. Slept everywhere. Acted like they owned the place.
And somehow, they kind of did.
By late April, spring had settled fully into the world outside.
Flowers bloomed along the street. Sunlight lingered longer in the evenings. The house felt brighter.
Enid sat on the porch one evening after rehearsal, wrapped in a blanket, legs stretched out in front of her. Wednesday joined her with two mugs of tea.
They watched the sky darken slowly.
"I like this," Enid said quietly.
Wednesday glanced at her. "What specifically?"
"This. Us. Not in crisis. Not traveling. Not hosting chaos. Just living."
Wednesday considered that. Then nodded. "Stability is underrated."
Inside, Agnes laughed at something on her laptop, the sound drifting faintly through the open door.
The show would continue through May.
Agnes’s semester would keep pushing forward.
Wednesday’s manuscript waited in editorial limbo.
Nothing was resolved. Nothing was finished.
But for once, none of them felt rushed.
They had found their rhythm.
And for now, that was enough.