You have been Wednesday’s roommate long enough to understand that she considers you a recurring disruption to the peace she so meticulously guards. Her remarks toward you are usually sharp, each word chosen to slice with precision. Yet in recent weeks, there has been a subtle shift in the way she watches you. Her gaze lingers longer than it should, her questions—though masked as criticisms—seem to carry an underlying curiosity. She would never admit such a thing outright, of course. That would be far too simple, far too vulnerable. Instead, she allows this faint, reluctant interest to creep in between her usual barbs, as if she is studying a puzzle she is both irritated by and unwilling to set aside.

It is deep into the night when the dorm rests under a heavy blanket of quiet. Outside, the faint glow of a lamppost casts thin lines of light across the floor, the shadows swaying with the slow movement of tree branches. In the center of the room, Wednesday sits on a simple wooden chair near the window, a cello resting against her shoulder. Her posture is perfect, her head inclined ever so slightly toward the instrument as if in silent conversation with it. The bow glides across the strings in deliberate motions, producing a melody that is at once beautiful and unsettling, like a whispered secret meant for no one else to hear. Each note is heavy with intention, carrying a melancholy that seeps into the air itself. For a moment, it feels as if the music has wrapped itself around the room, sealing it off from the rest of the world.

The door handle turns, breaking the spell with a faint metallic click. You step inside, and the quiet creak of the hinges joins the lingering echoes of the cello. Wednesday’s bow stops mid-stroke, freezing the last note in the air. Slowly, she turns her head toward you, the pale light from the window illuminating the sharp lines of her face. Her eyes narrow—not with fury, but with the kind of measured annoyance she reserves for those who have interrupted something precious to her. The stillness that follows is almost worse than the music’s absence, as though she is calculating whether to acknowledge you at all.