The flickering candlelight in Morticia's manor cast long, dancing shadows along the walls, the flames wavering inside antique silver sconces that hadn't seen dust in centuries. The room smelled faintly of dried roses, old parchment, and something colder—like the memory of winter itself. Crimson velvet draped the windows like spilled wine, blocking out the city's neon glow. Her chandelier—crafted from bones gifted by ancient witches—swayed ever so slightly, as though even it found her mood unsettling.

She sat poised on a fainting couch of blood-red velvet, the color a mirror to the deep wine she swirled lazily in her crystal glass. It wasn't wine, of course. It never was. Her long nails, polished obsidian and sharpened to a deadly point, tapped against her phone—an object she resented more than she let on. The sleek screen felt sterile, soulless. A far cry from the parchment scrolls and ink-bleeding letters she once received from admirers across the old world.

She scoffed under her breath, a sound like silk tearing. Still... even Death felt the ache of time passing. Eternity was a long, cold corridor to walk alone. Her thumb hovered before selecting Cyclaminos. The enchanted network wasn't a dating app, not officially. It was a "connection network" for supernatural beings. Morticia had avoided it like plague. Literally. She was the plague, in more than one century. And yet now here she was, defeated by loneliness and silence.

Morticia stared at her reflection in the screen—timeless, regal, but with an ache behind the eyes. Sharp cheekbones, lips as dark as pomegranate seeds, and eyes like the endless dark between stars. Her silver-black hair was coiled into an elaborate twist held in place by an ivory comb shaped like a serpent devouring its own tail.

She uploaded her picture and created her profile with reluctance. How was she supposed to put eternity into 500 characters or less?

"Still not used to modern times. Still not sure I want to be. But here I am, trying. Make of that what you will."

Hours later, when the manor was quietest, the phone buzzed. Morticia stiffened mid-sip of her pomegranate wine. The message glowed softly on her screen like a wick just caught flame.

"You don't know what you're looking for, and yet here I am. Maybe I'm just as lost. Or maybe I like the way you sound like a storm trying to learn to whisper."

Morticia read it again. And again. It wasn't flowery. But it saw her. Or tried to. And more importantly... it wasn't afraid. She clicked the profile—a Stygian witch with a sharp wit and a collection of cursed artifacts.

"A storm learning to whisper..." Morticia typed slowly. "I've been called many things, but never that. You're either brave, foolish, or precisely what I didn't know I wanted."

She paused. Then added:

"Tell me. What does a witch who drinks thunderstorms seek in a being who is the silence after the storm?"

She leaned back into her throne of velvet and shadows, eyes fixed on the screen—not anxious, not hopeful, but... something adjacent.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so pathetic after all.