My Fan Fictions

Summary: Everyone from fairytales, hereos, and legends should eachother even their children and their children's children but nobody knew of Zylia. She has been on her own for so long thanks to somebody she once trusted but will her new friends help her or will be gone once again.

Ch3

The morning sun shone brightly over Auradon as students gathered near the school entrance. Banners fluttered in the breeze, celebrating the arrival of the first students from the Isle of the Lost.

King Ben stood near the front beside Audrey, Fairy Godmother, and several teachers. Excitement and nervous whispers spread through the crowd as a black limousine rolled through the gates.

Far away at the edge of the forest, another figure watched.

Zylia stepped out from beneath the trees.

Her long blonde hair nearly touched the ground behind her. The clothes she wore looked like they had been stitched together from a hundred different lives. A hero's cape fragment hung from one shoulder. A piece of a villain's jacket was sewn into the sleeve. Small stars, faded with age, were embroidered into the fabric—a reminder of her mother, the Blue Fairy.

People who saw her never knew what to think.

Was she a hero?

A villain?

Even Zylia didn't know anymore.

After years of living alone, surviving on forgotten scraps and abandoned belongings, those labels meant nothing to her.

She quietly walked toward the crowd.

The limousine stopped.

The doors opened.

Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos stepped out.

Immediately, students began whispering.

"Those are the villain kids."

"They actually came."

"Look at their clothes."

Then another wave of murmurs spread as everyone noticed a second stranger approaching.

Zylia.

She walked directly between the Auradon students and the four VKs.

The crowd fell silent.

Audrey frowned.

"Who is that?"

Fairy Godmother adjusted her glasses.

"I... don't know."

Several guards exchanged confused looks. Zylia didn't look dangerous, but she certainly didn't look like an Auradon student either.

Mal narrowed her eyes.

"Friend of yours?" she asked Evie.

Evie shook her head.

"Never seen her before."

Carlos took a nervous step behind Jay.

"She kinda looks like she lives in the woods."

"I do," Zylia answered casually.

Carlos jumped.

"Okay, that's creepy."

A few students laughed.

Ben couldn't help smiling.

He recognized her immediately.

For months he had searched for the mysterious girl he had met in the forest. Nobody else remembered her, but he never forgot.

"Zylia."

Her eyes shifted toward him.

"Hello, Ben."

The crowd looked between them.

Audrey blinked.

"You know her?"

"Of course I do."

Zylia raised an eyebrow.

"That's surprising."

Ben laughed softly.

"I told you I wouldn't forget."

For just a moment, something warm flickered across Zylia's face before her usual guarded expression returned.

Audrey stepped closer to Ben.

"Who is she?"

Before Ben could answer, Zylia spoke first.

"Nobody important."

Mal immediately understood that was a lie.

Nobody said "nobody important" with that much sadness.

Fairy Godmother studied the girl carefully. There was something familiar about the stars sewn into her clothes, but she couldn't place it.

Zylia looked at the VKs.

"So these are the children from the Isle."

Mal crossed her arms.

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing."

She shrugged.

"Just curious."

Jay smirked.

"You don't look much like an Auradon kid."

"That's because I'm not."

"You don't look like an Isle kid either," Evie observed.

"That's because I'm not that either."

The answer only confused them more.

Ben stepped forward.

"Zylia, why don't you stay? Meet everyone."

For a second she looked ready to refuse.

Living alone had taught her not to trust people.

Not to stay.

Not to belong.

Yet her eyes drifted toward the four VKs.

They looked just as out of place as she felt.

Maybe for the first time in a very long time, she wasn't the only outsider standing in Auradon.

"Maybe," she said quietly.

Mal smirked.

"Well, this day just got a lot more interesting."

And as Auradon and the Isle kids stared at the mysterious girl standing between both worlds, none of them realized that Zylia's arrival would change far more than the VKs ever could.

Zylia didn’t wait for permission.

The moment the attention shifted back toward the arrival of the VKs, she quietly moved past the crowd and toward Auradon Prep.

"Hey!" Audrey called after her. "You can't just walk into the school!"

Zylia didn’t even look back.

"I've been walking into places I'm not supposed to for years," she replied.

Audrey looked offended.

"That is not how things work here."

But Zylia was already inside.

The grand halls of Auradon Prep were nothing like the hidden paths and abandoned places she had grown used to. Everything was bright, polished, and full of memories.

She walked slowly.

Not because she was impressed.

Because she recognized things.

Her eyes moved across the portraits hanging on the walls.

King Adam and Queen Belle.

Fairy Godmother.

Heroes who had shaped Auradon.

People whose names were written in history books.

Then she stopped.

Her expression changed.

Only slightly.

But Mal noticed.

Evie noticed too.

The portrait showed a group of young people standing together as students.

Back before they became legends.

Back before they became rulers, protectors, and stories parents told their children.

Zylia stared at the painting.

"You knew them?" Evie asked softly.

Zylia didn’t answer.

Her eyes moved from one face to another.

Old friends.

People who had laughed with her.

People who had promised they would never forget her.

Then she saw another portrait.

The one that made her stop completely.

The Blue Family.

The Blue Fairy.

Her mother.

Her father.

Her brother.

The one who held the power over wishes.

The one who was supposed to protect her.

The one who had cursed her.

Zylia’s face remained perfectly still.

Years of being alone had taught her how to hide everything.

Anger.

Pain.

Fear.

Loss.

She had trained herself not to cry.

Not to react.

Not to let anyone see how much it hurt.

But Mal saw it.

The tiny crack in the mask.

The way Zylia's hand tightened.

The way her eyes shimmered.

The tears that she refused to let fall.

Evie’s expression softened.

"Zylia..."

The sound of her name snapped her back.

Immediately, the emotion disappeared.

Her face became unreadable again.

"I'm fine."

Mal looked at her.

"You don't look fine."

"I didn't ask if I looked fine."

The sharpness in her voice surprised them.

Zylia turned away from the portrait and continued walking through the halls.

She studied classrooms, decorations, and everything that had changed since she was last there.

Eventually, Doug found them.

"Hey, Ben asked me to show you guys your dorm."

Zylia simply nodded.

The three girls followed him upstairs.

When Doug opened the door, the room looked like something from a royal magazine.

Three beds.

Three dressers.

Elegant decorations.

A room made for princesses.

Evie’s eyes lit up.

"This is amazing!"

She immediately walked around, admiring everything.

Mal stared at the room.

"Seriously?"

She picked up a decorative pillow.

"This place is way too perfect."

Zylia stood in the doorway.

Silent.

Her eyes moved around the room.

A bed.

A dresser.

A place that belonged to her.

Something she hadn’t had in years.

But she showed nothing.

Mal noticed.

"You really don't react to anything, do you?"

Zylia looked at her.

"I react."

"Could've fooled me."

Evie looked between them.

"Mal..."

But Mal wasn't trying to be cruel.

She was curious.

Especially after what they had seen downstairs.

She leaned against the dresser.

"Okay. Enough mystery."

Zylia looked at her.

"About what?"

Mal pointed toward the portrait.

"The Blue Family."

The room went quiet.

Zylia immediately looked away.

"No."

Mal frowned.

"That's it? No explanation?"

"No."

"You were looking at them like they were your family."

"They were."

Evie froze.

"Wait..."

Zylia closed her eyes for a moment.

"My past is not something I discuss."

Mal crossed her arms.

"But you're connected to them."

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

Her voice wasn't angry.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Mal studied her.

For once, she didn't push.

Because she understood that feeling.

Having a family that caused pain.

Having a story you weren't ready to tell.

Evie quietly sat on her bed.

"Okay."

Zylia glanced at her.

Evie smiled gently.

"You don't have to tell us today."

Mal looked away.

"Yeah. Whatever."

But Zylia noticed.

They believed her.

For the first time in a long time, someone didn't demand answers.

They just let her exist.

And somehow, that felt stranger than any magic curse.

Mal continued looking around the dorm, still trying to figure out the mystery that was Zylia.

"So," Mal said casually, "you've been around Auradon before, right?"

Zylia looked over.

"Somewhat."

"Then you know where Fairy Godmother keeps her wand?"

Zylia stared at her.

"The wand?"

"Yeah. The one that can do basically anything."

Zylia turned back toward the window.

"I don't know."

Mal raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"I never cared where she kept it."

Evie looked surprised.

"You never wondered what you could do with that kind of magic?"

Zylia's expression stayed blank.

"When you spend years trying to survive, you stop thinking about what you could have. You think about what keeps you alive."

That answer made both girls quiet.

Before either of them could respond, footsteps approached.

Ben appeared at the doorway.

"Hey. How's everything going?"

Mal immediately smiled.

"The room is great. Evie loves it. I hate how perfect everything is."

Evie laughed.

Ben looked around.

"And Zylia?"

She was standing near the window, looking out over Auradon.

"I've seen worse."

Ben smiled slightly.

"That's probably the closest thing to a compliment I'll get."

Mal and Evie exchanged a glance.

"We're going to find Jay and Carlos," Mal said.

"Make sure they haven't broken anything," Evie added.

The two girls left, leaving Ben and Zylia alone.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Ben noticed the difference in her.

Earlier, when she looked at the Blue Family portrait, her eyes had been full of emotions she was trying to hide.

Now she was back behind the wall she had built.

"Zylia."

She looked at him.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Ben gave her a knowing look.

"You said that before."

"And it's still true."

He walked closer.

"I saw your face when you looked at that portrait."

Zylia looked away.

"Don't."

Ben stopped.

"I'm not trying to force you to talk."

"Everyone says that until they start asking questions."

Ben stayed quiet for a moment.

Then he spoke softly.

"I just want you to know I'm here if you need someone."

Zylia looked at him.

The kindness almost made it harder.

Because she wanted to believe him.

But she couldn't let herself.

"Ben..."

"What?"

She took a breath.

"You need to understand something."

Ben listened.

"Me being here isn't going to fix anything."

His expression changed.

"What do you mean?"

"This place. Auradon. The school. The people."

She gestured around the room.

"It's not going to break the curse."

Ben frowned.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

Her voice became quieter.

"I've spent years looking for answers. I've tried everything. Every spell. Every story. Every person who claimed they could help."

She looked down at her hands.

"And I'm still cursed."

Ben stepped closer.

"Zylia—"

"Bringing me here feels like hope to you."

She looked at him.

"But to me, it feels like wasting your time."

Ben shook his head.

"You're not a waste of my time."

Zylia looked away.

"You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

For a moment, she almost answered.

Almost.

But the fear of saying too much stopped her.

"The people in that portrait were my family."

Ben waited.

"And one of them is the reason I can't grow older, can't go back, can't move forward."

His eyes widened slightly.

"Your brother..."

Zylia didn't confirm it.

She didn't deny it.

She simply looked back out the window.

"I don't want Auradon to become another place I have to lose."

Ben's expression softened.

"Zylia..."

"I'm not asking you to fix me."

She turned toward him.

"I'm asking you to believe me when I say this isn't as simple as giving me a room and a new beginning."

Ben nodded slowly.

"Okay."

She looked surprised.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He smiled gently.

"But I'm still going to be your friend."

Zylia stared at him.

After years of people leaving, forgetting, or betraying her, that simple statement felt almost impossible.

"You really don't give up, do you?"

Ben smiled.

"No."

For the first time that day, the smallest hint of a smile appeared on Zylia's face.

"That's going to get annoying."

"Probably."

And for a brief moment, the girl who had spent years alone wasn't standing completely by herself anymore.

By nightfall, Auradon had gone quiet.

Most of the dorms were dark, the halls dim except for the gold glow from lanterns outside. Zylia waited until the last bit of noise faded before slipping out of bed and toward the window. She moved carefully, the way she always did when she didn’t want to be noticed. It was easier to leave than to stay. Easier to disappear into the trees than to keep pretending she belonged in a place like this.

Soon, she was outside again, heading back toward her treehouse.

But halfway through the path, she stopped.

Voices.

She turned her head and spotted the VKs making their way toward the museum.

Zylia frowned. The museum was closed.

That alone was suspicious enough.

She followed them from the shadows, keeping her distance as they slipped inside. A moment later, she used her fairy magic to blur herself from sight, the air around her shimmering until she became invisible.

Inside, she watched them search through the darkened museum for the wand Mal had mentioned earlier.

Zylia stayed silent as she moved through the exhibits, her bare feet barely making a sound on the polished floor. The VKs were too focused to notice her. They were arguing in low voices, checking displays, scanning shelves, searching for something that had to be here somewhere.

Then Zylia wandered into the historic section.

The place where Auradon kept its most important figures.

Heroes. Rulers. Legends.

She barely had time to breathe before she saw it.

A statue.

Her brother.

Kneeling.

His head bowed as their mother placed the wand into his hands.

Their mother’s wand.

Zylia stopped so suddenly it felt like the air left the room with her.

Her chest tightened.

For one painful second, all she could see was that statue and all she could think was, if only she could see him again. If only she could look him in the face and tell him exactly what he had done.

He had ruined her life.

He did not deserve to be called the Blue Fairy’s son.

He did not deserve her mother’s name.

He did not deserve forgiveness.

Her magic flickered.

The invisibility dropped.

“Zylia?” Evie’s voice cut through the silence.

Zylia turned sharply. Evie was standing a few feet away, staring at her with wide eyes, clearly surprised to find her there.

Zylia quickly straightened her posture and forced her face into something calm.

“I was just looking around,” she said.

Evie studied her. “You were invisible a second ago.”

“I’m a fairy,” Zylia said flatly, as if that explained everything.

Evie didn’t look convinced.

“What are you doing here?”

Zylia glanced back at the statue before answering. “The same thing you are, I guess.”

Evie followed her gaze, then looked back at her. “No. I mean really. What is your problem with the Blue family?”

Zylia went still.

For a second, she looked like she might shut down completely.

Then, quietly, she said, “My brother ruined my life.”

Evie blinked, her expression softening just a little.

Zylia kept going, because now that she had started, the words were harder to stop.

“He cursed me. Said the only way it could be broken was if my true love gave me their most valued treasure.”

Evie’s eyes widened.

Zylia’s voice stayed steady, but only barely. “Otherwise I stay like this forever. Immortal. Stuck. Watching everything move on without me.”

She didn’t say that part to Ben. She had never said that part to Ben.

Evie looked at her carefully now, not with judgment, but with something closer to understanding.

“So that’s why you don’t want to be here,” she said softly.

Zylia gave a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t want to be here because none of this is fair.”

Evie frowned. “What do you mean?”

Zylia looked past her, toward the rest of the museum where the VKs were still searching.

“What did they do to deserve this?” she asked. “What did any of the kids from the Isle do? Or us? We’re the ones paying for what our parents and grandparents did.”

Evie didn’t answer.

Zylia’s eyes stayed on the displays, on the polished history Auradon liked to show the world.

“I know what it’s like,” she said, quieter now. “To live with someone else’s choices hanging over your head. To be blamed for things you didn’t do.”

She finally looked back at Evie.

“But at least they got locked away. At least people remember them.”

Her expression hardened.

“My brother got away with it.”

The words fell heavy between them.

“And nobody even remembers me.”

Evie softened completely then, her face no longer guarded or confused.

Zylia looked away before the silence could swallow her.

“What are you really doing here?” she asked again, but this time her voice was sharper. “For the wand? For your friends? Or because you think stealing from Auradon makes you feel better?”

Evie hesitated, then said, “We’re trying to fix things.”

Zylia laughed once, dry and tired. “By breaking into a museum.”

Evie opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Zylia folded her arms. “I don’t hate you, Evie. I don’t hate the VKs.”

Evie looked relieved for a second, until Zylia continued.

“But it still feels unfair.”

Evie nodded slowly. “It is unfair.”

Zylia glanced at her.

Evie looked at her too. "Not as unfair for what your brother did. we won say anything about this." 

Summary: Everyone from fairytales, hereos, and legends should eachother even their children and their children's children but nobody knew of Zylia. She has been on her own for so long thanks to somebody she once trusted but will her new friends help her or will be gone once again.

Ch2

Ben could not stop thinking about her.

The mysterious girl had been gone for hours, yet her face kept finding its way back into his thoughts. Every time he sat down to study for his upcoming proclamation, he found himself staring out the window instead of reading.

Zylia.

The name lingered in his mind.

She had looked his age, but something about her hadn't felt that way at all. The way she spoke. The way she carried herself. The sadness in her eyes.

And then there was what she had said.

"Someone your kingdom forgot."

Ben leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"What does that even mean?"

Eventually, he gave up pretending to study and headed for the castle library.

If there was anyone who might know something, it would be his parents.

Belle was seated at a large table covered in books and papers when Ben arrived. Adam stood nearby speaking with a castle advisor before dismissing him.

Belle looked up immediately and smiled.

"Ben, shouldn't you be preparing for your proclamation?"

"I was."

Adam raised an eyebrow.

"Was?"

Ben ignored the look.

"I need to ask you something."

The seriousness in his voice made both parents exchange a glance.

Belle closed her book.

"What is it?"

Ben sat across from them.

"Have either of you ever heard of someone named Zylia?"

The reaction was immediate.

Nothing.

No recognition.

No surprise.

Just confusion.

Belle slowly shook her head.

"I don't think so."

Adam folded his arms.

"Doesn't sound familiar."

Ben frowned.

"What about any fairy kingdoms?"

Belle thought for a moment.

"There are dozens of fairy families and magical bloodlines. Why?"

Ben hesitated.

Because saying I met a mysterious girl who vanished into thin air and spoke like she was a hundred years old sounded ridiculous.

Still, he trusted his parents.

"I met someone yesterday."

Belle leaned forward with interest.

"A student?"

"No."

Adam immediately looked concerned.

"Someone from outside Auradon?"

"I think so."

Ben told them everything.

About seeing the girl wandering the school grounds.

About how she seemed nervous whenever he asked questions.

About how she knew who he was.

About her unusual name.

About her disappearing into blue magic.

And finally, about the sentence that had stuck with him ever since.

"Someone your kingdom forgot."

When he finished, silence filled the library.

Belle and Adam exchanged another glance.

Neither looked any closer to an answer.

"That's strange," Belle admitted.

"Very strange," Adam agreed.

Ben sighed.

"I was hoping one of you would know something."

Belle tapped her fingers against the table thoughtfully.

"Did she tell you where she came from?"

"No."

"Family?"

"No."

"Anything?"

Ben shook his head.

"She said she was curious about Auradon."

Adam frowned.

"That doesn't explain much."

"No."

Belle looked thoughtful.

"The blue magic is interesting."

"What do you mean?"

"It sounds similar to fairy magic."

Ben straightened slightly.

"You think she's a fairy?"

"It's possible."

Adam nodded.

"Many fairy families can teleport."

"But why hide?"

Neither parent had an answer.

The following day Ben asked more questions.

He spoke to Fairy Godmother.

He spoke to various royal advisors.

He even asked a few visiting leaders from neighboring kingdoms.

Nobody knew the name.

Nobody had ever heard of a girl named Zylia.

The more dead ends he encountered, the more curious he became.

It was as though she didn't exist.

Which somehow only made him want answers more.

Several miles away, hidden within the Enchanted Forest, Zylia sat high in the branches of her treehouse.

A small enchanted mirror rested in her lap.

Its silver surface shimmered softly as images appeared within it.

One of the few advantages of being centuries old was knowing spells most people had forgotten.

The mirror showed Ben walking through the castle.

Then the library.

Then speaking with Belle and Adam.

Zylia watched quietly.

A small smile tugged at her lips when she saw the confusion on their faces.

Of course they don't remember.

The potion worked perfectly.

Her smile quickly faded.

That thought wasn't funny.

It never had been.

Even now, centuries later, part of her still wanted to run through the castle doors and shout:

"Mother, it's me."

But she knew what would happen.

The Blue Fairy would look at her with confusion.

Maybe kindness.

Maybe concern.

But not recognition.

Not love.

Not memory.

Because those memories had been stolen.

Zylia lowered her eyes.

The ache never truly went away.

That evening she sat on her balcony as the sun disappeared beyond the trees.

Birds sang in the distance.

The forest glowed gold and orange.

Usually the view calmed her.

Tonight it didn't.

Her thoughts kept returning to Ben.

He was still asking questions.

Still searching.

Still trying to understand.

Most people would have forgotten about her by now.

Most people would have accepted that she didn't want to talk.

Ben hadn't.

The realization made her uneasy.

And strangely warm.

"He should stop," she muttered.

The forest offered no response.

Zylia sighed.

"No. That's not true."

She leaned her head against the wooden railing.

"He deserves answers."

Just not all of them.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Trust was dangerous.

Trust was what had destroyed her life in the first place.

She had trusted her brother.

She had believed he loved her.

She had never imagined he would curse her.

Never imagined he would erase her from existence.

Never imagined he would steal her family away while they were all still alive.

The memories still hurt.

They probably always would.

The next afternoon Ben sat alone near the edge of Auradon Prep's gardens.

A notebook rested in his lap.

He wasn't reading it.

Instead he stared toward the distant forest.

Thinking.

Waiting.

Hoping.

He wasn't entirely sure why.

A movement among the trees caught his attention.

Ben immediately stood.

There.

For only a moment.

A figure.

Watching.

His heart jumped.

"Zylia?"

The figure stepped from behind a tree.

Long braided hair.

Blue eyes.

The same cloak.

The same cautious expression.

This time she didn't disappear.

Ben slowly approached.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back."

Zylia folded her arms.

"I wasn't sure either."

A small smile appeared on Ben's face.

"At least we're both honest."

That earned the faintest hint of amusement from her.

Ben noticed.

And felt oddly proud of himself.

For several seconds neither spoke.

Finally Ben broke the silence.

"I asked around."

Zylia groaned quietly.

"Of course you did."

"I couldn't help it."

"You're terrible at leaving mysteries alone."

Ben laughed.

"That's fair."

The sound was genuine.

Warm.

It caught Zylia off guard.

She looked away before he could notice.

"I didn't find anything," Ben admitted.

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Why?"

Because my brother erased me from history.

Because my own mother doesn't remember me.

Because nobody remembers what happened.

But she couldn't tell him that.

Not yet.

Instead she chose a safer truth.

"I'm not exactly easy to find."

Ben studied her.

"You know, most people answer questions directly."

"Most people aren't me."

That made him laugh again.

For the first time, Zylia found herself smiling.

A real smile.

Small.

Brief.

But real.

Ben noticed immediately.

And somehow that made her smile disappear even faster.

"You wanted answers," she said.

"I do."

"I can give you some."

Ben straightened.

"Really?"

Zylia nodded.

"But not everything."

His expression softened.

"Okay."

"Don't ask for more than I'm willing to tell."

"I can do that."

She wasn't sure she believed him.

Still.

It was a start.

For the first time in centuries, Zylia had willingly returned to someone instead of running away.

And as she looked at Ben standing there beneath the afternoon sun, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—allowing one person to know part of her story wasn't quite as terrifying as she had always believed.

Not safe.

Never safe.

But perhaps possible.

And for someone who had spent centuries alone, that possibility felt bigger than she wanted to admit.

Chapter Three: A Promise of Trust

The gardens were quiet.

A gentle breeze stirred the flowers growing along the edge of Auradon Prep while students remained inside their classrooms. It left the grounds nearly empty, giving Ben and Zylia the privacy they needed.

For a few moments, neither spoke.

Ben didn't want to push her.

Zylia was clearly deciding how much she was willing to reveal.

Finally, she took a slow breath.

"You asked why nobody knows who I am."

Ben nodded.

"Yeah."

Zylia stared toward the distant forest.

"It's because they can't."

His eyebrows furrowed.

"What does that mean?"

"It means someone made sure they wouldn't."

Ben waited patiently.

After several seconds, Zylia continued.

"A long time ago, I trusted someone."

Immediately, Ben noticed the change in her voice.

The sadness.

The bitterness.

The hurt that still hadn't healed.

"They were family," she said quietly. "Someone I loved. Someone I thought would always protect me."

Ben remained silent.

"Instead, they cursed me."

His eyes widened.

"Cursed you?"

Zylia nodded.

"The details don't matter."

Actually, they mattered very much.

But she wasn't ready for that conversation.

Not yet.

"The curse changed my life. After that, everyone I knew forgot I existed."

Ben stared at her.

"What?"

"It wasn't their fault."

For the first time, Zylia looked directly at him.

"There are people who should remember me."

Her voice grew softer.

"People who loved me."

Ben's chest tightened.

"They don't?"

She shook her head.

"No."

The answer sounded simple.

But the pain behind it wasn't.

Ben couldn't imagine it.

To have parents, friends, family...

And then have them look at you like a stranger.

To be erased while still standing right in front of them.

"That's horrible."

A faint smile touched her lips.

"You'd be surprised how much worse it feels than it sounds."

The smile vanished quickly.

"I spent years trying to fix it."

Years.

The word stood out immediately.

Ben narrowed his eyes.

"Years?"

Zylia froze.

For a second, she looked annoyed with herself.

Then she sighed.

"Right."

Ben pointed at her.

"That's not something people say when they're sixteen."

"No."

"Zylia..."

She rubbed her forehead.

"I knew this would happen."

"How old are you?"

Zylia looked away.

"Older."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer you're getting."

Ben groaned.

She almost laughed.

Almost.

"You're impossible."

"I've been told that."

"By who?"

A pause.

"No one recently."

The answer carried a loneliness that immediately killed Ben's amusement.

He looked at her carefully.

Just because she looked sixteen didn't mean she was.

The way she talked.

The way she observed people.

The way she carried herself.

It all made more sense now.

"How long have you been alone?" he asked softly.

Zylia didn't answer right away.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Long enough."

Ben didn't push further.

He could tell there were wounds she wasn't ready to open.

Instead, he nodded.

"Okay."

That surprised her.

"Okay?"

"You don't want to tell me everything."

"No."

"So I won't force you."

For a moment, Zylia simply stared at him.

Most people demanded answers.

Most people became suspicious.

Most people got angry.

Ben simply accepted her boundary.

It felt strange.

Stranger still was the fact she appreciated it.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Ben smiled.

"You're welcome."

Silence settled between them.

Then Zylia became serious again.

"There's something important I need you to promise."

Ben immediately nodded.

"What?"

"You cannot tell anyone about me."

His smile faded.

"Anyone?"

"Anyone."

Ben hesitated.

"What if my parents could help?"

"They can't."

"What if Fairy Godmother—"

"They can't."

Her voice wasn't angry.

Just certain.

Zylia folded her arms.

"Ben, nobody knows who I am."

She looked him directly in the eye.

"If you suddenly start telling people about a mysterious girl nobody has ever heard of, who appears and disappears in the forest, they'll think you've lost your mind."

That earned a reluctant laugh.

"Fair point."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Ben thought for a moment.

Then nodded.

"You have my word."

Zylia studied him carefully.

Looking for hesitation.

Looking for dishonesty.

Looking for any sign that he might break the promise.

She found none.

At last, she relaxed slightly.

"Thank you."

Ben smiled.

"You really don't trust people very easily, do you?"

A bitter laugh escaped her.

"No."

The answer was immediate.

Automatic.

Like she'd answered the question a thousand times before.

Ben didn't ask why.

He already knew.

Someone she trusted had betrayed her.

Someone had cursed her.

That was enough explanation.

For now.

After a few moments, Ben sat down on a nearby stone bench.

"Can I ask you something?"

Zylia raised an eyebrow.

"You just did."

"Another question."

"There it is."

Ben laughed.

"You enjoy making this difficult."

"Sometimes."

A small smile appeared on her face.

The sight made something warm stir inside his chest.

He quickly focused on the actual question.

"My proclamation."

Zylia blinked.

"What about it?"

"I'm considering doing something."

His expression became thoughtful.

"Something a lot of people might think is a terrible idea."

Now he had her attention.

"What kind of terrible idea?"

Ben leaned forward.

"The Isle of the Lost."

Immediately, Zylia's expression changed.

The smile vanished.

"I've heard of it."

"Everyone has."

Ben nodded.

"I want to bring some of the villain kids to Auradon."

Zylia stared at him.

"You what?"

"I want to give them a chance."

The breeze seemed to stop.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Ben waited.

Eventually, Zylia sat beside him.

Her gaze drifted toward the distant horizon.

"The children."

"Yeah."

"They've done nothing wrong."

"No."

"They were just born there."

Ben nodded.

"Exactly."

Zylia remained quiet.

Thinking.

She had seen kingdoms rise and fall.

She had watched countless rulers make decisions.

Most chose fear.

Most chose safety.

Most chose what was easiest.

Very few chose compassion.

She looked at Ben.

And realized he genuinely believed it.

He wasn't trying to gain approval.

He wasn't trying to look noble.

He honestly thought it was the right thing to do.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Zylia took a slow breath.

"I think your advisors are probably against it."

Ben laughed.

"They definitely are."

"Many people will be afraid."

"They already are."

She nodded.

"Some of those children might become villains."

"Maybe."

"And some might become heroes."

Ben smiled.

"That's what I'm hoping."

Zylia looked down at her hands.

For a moment, she remembered herself.

A child being judged because of someone else's choices.

A child suffering because of another person's bitterness.

A child losing everything.

"No one should be punished for the family they were born into," she said quietly.

Ben's smile widened.

"So you agree?"

"I think everyone deserves a chance."

Then she looked directly at him.

"Even if they don't think they do."

For a brief moment, neither spoke.

The words hung between them.

Ben understood exactly who she was talking about.

Her.

"You know," Ben said eventually.

"What?"

"If you're giving the Isle kids a chance..."

Zylia narrowed her eyes.

"I don't like where this is going."

"Then maybe you should come to Auradon too."

She groaned immediately.

"There it is."

Ben laughed.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You'd fit in."

"No."

"You haven't even tried."

"Ben."

"You could have friends."

"Ben."

"You wouldn't have to hide in the forest."

"Ben."

"You could—"

"Ben."

He finally stopped talking.

Zylia folded her arms.

"You're very stubborn."

"My parents say the same thing."

"I believe them."

He grinned.

"You didn't say no."

"I absolutely did."

"It wasn't convincing."

She rolled her eyes.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt something strange.

Comfort.

Not complete.

Not perfect.

But enough to make her forget her loneliness for a few minutes.

That alone was dangerous.

Ben suddenly became serious again.

"You know something?"

"What?"

"If anyone can figure out how to break your curse..."

Zylia immediately shook her head.

"No."

"We could try."

"No."

"My parents, Fairy Godmother—"

"No."

"We have access to—"

"Ben."

He stopped.

She sighed.

The kindness in his voice made this harder than it should have been.

"You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

For a second, she almost told him.

Almost revealed the impossible condition attached to her curse.

Almost told him about true love.

About sacrifice.

About the treasure.

Instead she looked away.

"I've spent years searching for answers."

The sadness returned to her eyes.

"If it were easy, I would already be free."

Ben's expression softened.

"Maybe."

Then he smiled.

"But you don't have to search alone anymore."

The words hit harder than he realized.

Zylia froze.

No one had said something like that to her in centuries.

No one.

For a moment, she couldn't find a response.

Couldn't find a joke.

Couldn't find an excuse.

Couldn't find a wall high enough to hide behind.

So she simply looked at him.

And for the first time since they met, a small crack appeared in the defenses she had spent hundreds of years building.

"You're an unusual king," she said quietly.

Ben smiled.

"I've been told that."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

Real this time.

Warm.

Genuine.

The sound surprised both of them.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the curse, the loneliness, and the years of being forgotten, a very small spark of hope flickered to life.

Summary: Everyone from fairytales, hereos, and legends should eachother even their children and their children's children but nobody knew of Zylia. She has been on her own for so long thanks to somebody she once trusted but will her new friends help her or will be gone once again.

Ch1

Zylia had learned long ago that the safest place in the world was the one no one knew existed.

So she built it herself.

High in the branches of a twisted old tree deep in the Enchanted Forest, hidden beneath layers of vines, leaves, and spells older than most kingdoms, sat her treehouse. It was small but sturdy, woven together from enchanted wood that shifted color with the light and wrapped itself in shadows whenever someone unfamiliar came near. No ordinary traveler could find it. No careless wanderer could stumble across it. Even magical creatures passed by without noticing.

That was exactly how she liked it.

Zylia stood on the little balcony outside the treehouse and looked out over the forest, one hand resting on the railing while the other held the end of one of her long braids. Her hair was impossible to miss if she ever left it loose. It fell all the way down her back and nearly brushed the floor when she walked, as though it had a life of its own. Most days, she braided it into elaborate styles, twisted it into knots, or pinned it up with enchanted clips so it would stay out of the way.

Today, she had wrapped it in two thick braids that coiled over her shoulders and down her back.

Even after all this time, she still wasn’t used to how strange she looked to other people.

Sixteen, they always thought.

Sixteen and nothing more.

If only they knew.

Zylia exhaled slowly and leaned forward against the railing. The wind moved softly through the trees, stirring the leaves and carrying the smell of moss and magic.

Today, she had decided to go to Auradon Prep.

It was reckless, probably. Maybe stupid. Maybe both.

But she had spent too many days alone in the forest, too many nights staring at old memories that felt like they belonged to someone else, and too many years wondering what the world had become while she hid from it. She had heard enough whispers drifting through passing travelers and forest birds to know that Auradon was full of royals and heroes now. The children of legends walked those halls. The kingdom had changed. The villains were locked away on the Isle of the Lost, where they could not harm anyone else.

At least, that was what everyone believed.

Zylia understood better than most how easy it was for a lie to become the truth when enough people repeated it.

She touched the charm hanging at her neck, the one small thing she had kept from the life she barely remembered.

“Auradon,” she murmured to herself. “Just one look.”

The words did little to calm the flutter of nerves in her chest.

She should not be seen.

She should not be noticed.

And most of all, she should not be remembered.

Not when her own brother had made sure of that.

The thought tightened something deep inside her, a familiar ache she had carried for so long it had become part of her. Her brother had not only cursed her. He had erased her. He had taken a potion and used it to blur her from her family’s memories, twisting reality until even the Blue Fairy herself did not know what had truly been done to her daughter.

Zylia had spent years trying to understand how someone could be that cruel.

She never found an answer she liked.

The curse had been meant to trap her forever, to keep her alive and unchanging until the end of time. Not dead, not free, just stuck. Immortal. Invisible. Forgotten.

All because her brother had wanted their mother’s wand for himself.

All because he could not bear being told no.

Zylia drew her braid over one shoulder and secured it with a small silver clasp. Her reflection in the polished glass of the treehouse window looked back at her. An average sixteen-year-old girl with bright eyes and a calm expression that did not quite hide the years behind it.

Average.

That was the worst part sometimes.

She looked like a normal girl.

She sounded like one.

She could even pretend to be one for a little while if she had to.

But inside, she carried centuries of loneliness, caution, and grief.

“Just one walk,” she whispered.

Then she stepped into the spell that cloaked her home and disappeared from the treehouse in a shimmer of blue light.

Auradon Prep was busier than she expected.

Students crossed the grounds in groups, laughing, talking, carrying books and practicing magic spells they were clearly supposed to be studying somewhere else. Some wore polished uniforms, others had their own style, and a few looked exactly like what she imagined the children of heroes and royals would look like: confident, bright, and completely unaware of how much the world had already tried to break people before them.

Zylia stayed at the edges of the courtyard, careful to keep her hood low and her steps silent. Her hair was braided and pinned tightly so it would not move too much, though the ends still brushed against her back with each step. She kept one hand tucked inside the sleeve of her cloak, as if that could somehow help her feel smaller.

No one looked at her for long.

Good.

That was the goal.

She moved slowly around the outer path, pretending to admire the gardens while really studying the school itself. Her thoughts ran quietly beneath everything else.

So this is where they send the next generation.

So many of them look happy.

So many of them have no idea what it means to be trapped by a family curse.

A pair of students passed by near the fountain, arguing over homework. Zylia caught only fragments of their conversation.

“—not my fault I forgot the spell book—”

“—you always say that—”

Their laughter faded as they moved away.

She swallowed.

It still startled her sometimes, how easy it was to want what other people seemed to have. Friends. Choice. A future that belonged to them.

Zylia watched a girl with a crown-shaped hairpin hurry past with a stack of books in her arms. A boy in a jacket with gold trim jogged after her, calling something about lunch. Somewhere nearby, music played faintly from an open window.

She let herself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like to belong here.

The idea was dangerous.

Belonging led to questions.

Questions led to attention.

Attention led to mistakes.

And mistakes could get her found.

She was turning to leave when she heard someone speak behind her.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.”

Zylia stopped cold.

Slowly, she turned.

A boy stood a few feet away, watching her with a careful, curious expression. Ben.

She recognized him from the stories long before she had ever seen him in person. Son of Belle and Adam. Auradon’s king. A royal with kind eyes and too much confidence, at least if the rumors were true.

Up close, he looked younger than she expected. Not weak. Not silly. Just young in the way people were when they still believed the world made sense.

Zylia’s heart gave an unpleasant little jump.

She had not expected anyone to spot her.

Especially not him.

“I’m sorry,” she said at once, lowering her gaze. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Ben took a few cautious steps forward. “You didn’t cause trouble. You just startled me.”

Zylia glanced at the courtyard around them. No one else seemed to have noticed. She should have been relieved. Instead, she felt the familiar urge to vanish entirely.

Ben tilted his head. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“That’s because I don’t come here often.”

“Are you a new student?”

Zylia opened her mouth, then closed it again.

No.

Yes.

It was complicated.

The truth was a dangerous thing in her mouth.

“I’m just passing through,” she said carefully.

Ben’s expression softened, though the curiosity remained. “Passing through Auradon Prep?”

Zylia gave a tiny shrug, trying to keep her face calm. “It’s not unheard of.”

He looked at her for a second longer than necessary, as if he was trying to figure out why she sounded so guarded. Then he said, “You don’t have to act like you’re in trouble. I’m not going to yell at you.”

She almost laughed at that.

You would be surprised what kind of trouble I can get into without anyone knowing, she thought.

Out loud, she said, “That’s reassuring.”

Ben smiled faintly. “You sound like you’ve had to be careful a lot.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

Zylia looked away before her expression could shift.

Careful.

That was a gentle word for it.

She had spent centuries being careful.

Careful not to be seen.

Careful not to speak too much.

Careful not to let anyone get close enough to notice that she never changed, never aged, never fit neatly into the world around her.

Careful not to trust the wrong person.

Careful not to remember too much.

“I manage,” she said after a moment.

Ben studied her. “What’s your name?”

For one dizzy second, Zylia was afraid of saying it. Afraid of giving him anything real, anything that could tie her here, tie her to this moment, make it harder to disappear.

But the silence was becoming too long.

“Zylia,” she said quietly.

Something flickered across Ben’s face.

Not recognition.

Not exactly.

More like the faintest sense that he had heard a sound in the distance and could not tell whether it was real.

“Zylia,” he repeated. “That’s a beautiful name.”

No one had said that to her in a very long time.

She folded her hands together so he would not see them tremble. “Thank you.”

Ben glanced toward the main entrance, then back at her. “I’m Ben. Though I guess you already knew that.”

“I did.”

“Right.” He gave an awkward little half-smile. “That makes this slightly less official than I thought.”

Zylia’s lips twitched despite herself.

He noticed.

That was the problem with kind people. They were good at noticing the smallest things. Small things became details. Details became patterns. Patterns became questions.

And questions became memories.

Ben seemed encouraged by her almost-smile. “So, Zylia, if you’re not a student, and you’re not supposed to be here, what are you doing on campus?”

Zylia’s fingers tightened around her sleeves.

There it was.

The question she had expected from the beginning.

She glanced past him, toward the paths leading into the school, toward the bright towers and white walls and students who would never imagine the history standing right in front of them.

“I was curious,” she admitted. “That’s all.”

“Curious about Auradon?”

She nodded once.

Ben folded his arms, though not in an unfriendly way. More like he was thinking. “Well, I’d say Auradon is pretty easy to be curious about.”

Zylia looked at him. “Is that your royal opinion?”

He actually laughed at that. “Maybe.”

The sound was light, easy, and so open that for a moment Zylia forgot to guard her expression.

It made her chest ache.

Years ago—centuries ago, if she was honest—she had known what laughter sounded like in a home that was warm. She had known the feeling of being young and safe and loved before all of it was taken from her.

Now the memory came to her in flashes that hurt more than they healed.

Ben’s smile faded a little as he noticed her silence. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Zylia said quickly. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

About how strange it feels to stand in front of a king and not want to lie, she thought.

About how much I miss a life that doesn’t exist anymore.

About how your world is so bright it almost hurts to look at it.

Instead she said, “How long have you been watching the students here?”

Ben blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. “Fair point. I guess I’ve been around long enough to know most faces.”

“Most faces,” Zylia repeated.

He nodded. “And yours is new.”

That made her pulse quicken again.

No, she thought. Please do not start remembering me. Please do not look too closely. Please do not make this harder.

She glanced toward the forest edge, where the trees waited like old friends.

Ben followed her gaze. “Are you staying somewhere nearby?”

“A little.”

“A little?” he repeated.

Zylia shifted her weight. “That’s a yes.”

He smiled again, but this time there was a touch of concern underneath it. “If you need help finding somewhere safe, I can ask around.”

The offer was kind.

That made it more dangerous.

Zylia took a slow breath. “I don’t need help.”

Ben nodded, though he did not seem entirely convinced. “Okay.”

Silence settled between them for a moment.

Then Ben said, “You know, you don’t look like someone who’s just passing through.”

Zylia’s stomach tightened.

“Is that so?”

“It is.” He hesitated. “You look like someone who already knows where everything is.”

She almost said, You have no idea.

Almost told him that she knew more about lost kingdoms, broken spells, and hidden power than anyone at Auradon Prep could possibly imagine.

Almost told him that she had once belonged to a family that no longer remembered her.

Almost told him that she had watched empires come and go while remaining forever sixteen.

Instead, she forced her expression into calmness and said, “I get around.”

Ben laughed softly, but his eyes stayed on her face as though he felt that answer wasn’t the whole truth.

Before he could ask another question, a breeze swept across the courtyard.

Zylia felt it first.

Magic.

Not dangerous. Not hostile. Just a pull in the air, familiar and deep, like the forest itself had reached for her hand.

Her head lifted instantly.

Ben noticed the change in her posture. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly.

But he could tell it was not nothing.

Another gust moved through the grounds, stirring the leaves and touching the hem of her cloak. The spell that kept her hidden began to tug gently, warning her that the longer she stayed, the more likely it was that something would go wrong.

Zylia stepped backward.

Ben frowned. “Wait—”

“I have to go.”

“Hold on. You can’t just show up, say your name, and disappear.”

She gave him a look that was almost apologetic. “I just did.”

Ben took a step toward her. “I’m serious. Who are you really?”

The question struck like a bell.

Who are you really?

Not who she pretended to be.

Not who people thought she was.

Not the invisible girl the world had erased.

Zylia looked at him for one long, quiet moment.

For an instant, she imagined telling him everything.

The curse.

The brother.

The potion.

The stolen memory.

The years spent hiding in a treehouse in the forest while time moved on without her.

The impossible hope that one day someone might find her, choose her, and value her enough to break what had been done.

It would have been easier to say it.

It would have destroyed everything.

So instead she answered with the only truth she could safely give.

“Someone your kingdom forgot,” she said.

Ben’s expression changed instantly, from curiosity to concern. “What does that mean?”

But Zylia was already backing toward the trees.

“No,” Ben said, more urgently now. “Wait. I’m not trying to scare you.”

“I know.”

“Then talk to me.”

Her throat tightened.

There was something in his voice, something steady and sincere that made her want to stop, made her want to believe that for once, someone might listen without running.

But that was how mistakes happened.

That was how curses tightened.

That was how hope became pain.

Zylia turned fully toward the forest.

Ben reached out as if to stop her, but he was too far away.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then Zylia let the magic rise around her.

Blue light gathered at her feet first, then wrapped up her body in a shimmer that bent the air. Her long braided hair caught the glow like silver thread, and for a second she looked like something from an old fairy tale. A figure half in the world and half out of it.

Ben stared.

“Zylia!”

But she was already fading.

The trees behind her seemed to open, welcoming her back into the forest. Her spell carried her forward in a soft rush of wind and light, and then she was gone.

Ben rushed to the edge of the courtyard, looking into the trees where she had disappeared.

Nothing.

No footsteps.

No sign.

Just silence and leaves and the feeling that he had seen a ghost with sad eyes.

Back in the forest, Zylia stumbled to a stop beneath the cover of the branches, one hand pressed to her chest as her breath came unevenly.

For a second, she stayed there, staring back toward the distant school.

Her heart felt strange.

Too loud.

Too awake.

“He asked too many questions,” she whispered to herself.

Yet she could not stop thinking about the look on his face when she vanished.

Not fear.

Not disgust.

Not even suspicion.

Just confusion. Concern.

As though he had truly wanted to understand.

Zylia tightened her braid over her shoulder and forced herself to move deeper into the forest.

No matter how kind he had seemed, she could not forget what had happened to her before.

She could not forget her brother’s jealousy.

She could not forget the curse.

She could not forget that somewhere in the world, the Blue Fairy did not even know her daughter still lived.

And she could not forget that if anyone ever discovered the truth, everything would change.

Back at the hidden treehouse, Zylia climbed the ladder and stepped inside, letting the door close behind her with a soft enchanted click. The little room was quiet, safe, and familiar. Shelves of old books lined the walls. A small bed sat under the window. Candles flickered gently in glass holders. The forest glowed through the cracks in the wood.

She sank into a chair and stared at the floor for a long time.

“I should not have gone,” she told herself.

But even as she said it, she knew the truth.

She would go again.

Because now she knew Auradon Prep was real.

Because now she knew Ben had seen her.

And because somewhere beneath all the fear and loneliness, a tiny impossible part of her wondered whether being seen might be the first step toward being found.

Zylia closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands.

Outside, the forest listened in silence.

And far away, at Auradon Prep, Ben stood at the edge of the courtyard still thinking about the mysterious girl who had appeared, spoken like someone far older than she looked, and vanished into magic before he could learn more.

He did not know her story yet.

Front all done my nail polish on both sides.

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch21

The kettle hissed softly as Matilda set it on the stove, the familiar ritual a thin bulwark against the silence Henry left behind. She’d turned the record player up, letting the vibrant strains of a classical guitar piece flood the rooms of the large, old house. The vibrations through the floorboards were a comfort, a reminder of the sound she could now physically hear, though sometimes she missed the deep, tactile quiet of her old life.

She was rummaging through the cabinet, her fingers brushing past tins of bitter black tea Henry favored, searching for her own blend of chamomile and lavender. Her mind, however, was miles away, back in Hawkins. It wandered there often, a habit she couldn’t break. She wondered about Mike and Dustin and Lucas—were they just teenagers now, riding bikes to the arcade, or were they still looking over their shoulders, haunted by things that shouldn’t exist? She thought of Nancy, all grown up and fierce, and little Holly, who probably didn’t remember the quiet woman who used to read her stories. And Jim… dear, gruff Jim Hopper. Were they safe? Had Hawkins Lab finally left them alone, or was the shadow of the Upside Down just biding its time, a stain beneath their town they all pretended not to see?

The music swelled, but her thoughts were louder. She pictured the static-filled void of the Void, the cold of that other place. She had pulled Holly from a nightmare once, a fragment of that creeping darkness, years ago. The memory was a cold stone in her stomach.

A voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the guitar and her spiraling thoughts. “Looking for this?”

Matilda jumped, her hand flying to her chest. Henry stood in the kitchen doorway, holding out the small, floral-patterned tin she’d been seeking. A faint, amused smile touched his lips, but his eyes were as unreadable as ever. She had been so far away, she hadn’t felt his approach in the quiet threads of the house’s energy.

“You scared me,” she said, her voice a little breathless, the sound of it still a small surprise.

“My apologies,” he murmured, closing the distance. He placed the tin on the counter and cupped her face, leaning down to kiss her sweetly, a lingering touch that was both an apology and a claim. “I did call your name from the hall.”

She shook her head, leaning into his touch for a moment, the images of her friends scattering like mist. *I was distracted,* she thought, and felt the words settle in his mind.

He pulled back slightly, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Distracted by what?” he asked, his voice low. He could have plucked the thoughts directly from her head if he wished, but he always asked first now—a rule of this fragile intimacy.

“Just… Hawkins,” she admitted softly, turning away to finally pour the now-whistling kettle water into her mug. “The people there.”

Henry was silent for a beat, then moved to shrug off his coat. “They have their own lives, Matilda. Their own battles.” It wasn’t cruel, just a statement of fact, a gentle reminder of the boundary he’d drawn around their world here.

“I know,” she said, stirring her tea, watching the dried flowers swirl. “But knowing and not worrying are two different things.”

He came up behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his presence solid and pulling her fully back into the present, into this kitchen. “The time passes differently for me,” he said, an answer that was no answer at all to the questions she didn’t voice about his absences.

She nodded, letting the subject drop. It was the dance they knew. She was getting used to the rhythm: the quiet days, the shared silence, the weight of his secrets, and the weight of her own memories, which felt just as heavy.

He grabbed his own mug—plain black, no nonsense—and reached past her for the kettle. Matilda watched his sure, steady hands. He poured the hot water, steam rising between them like a veil.

He didn't look at her as he spoke. "I know what you're thinking," he said, his voice low. "That I'm just going to take off again. Like before."

She stayed quiet, just holding her floral tin, its metal warm against her palm.

"I'm not," he said, finally meeting her eyes. He dropped a tea bag into his mug. "I'm not going to disappear on you again." He stirred it once, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. "I know how it gets in this house. How the quiet sits on you. How your thoughts… wander."

He took a slow sip, then set the mug down. He reached for her hand. His fingers were warm, anchoring. "I want to keep you safe. That means staying. I know you feel alone here sometimes. But you're not. Not anymore."

Matilda looked down at their joined hands. The record had ended with a final, fading chord. The silence that followed felt different now. Not hollow with old fears, but thick with a new kind of tension, a promise that felt both like a shelter and a wall. She squeezed his hand, a silent acceptance, but in the back of her mind, the light green of her eyes still held a flicker of Hawkins, of friends who were once her only tether to a world she understood.

Henry seemed to sense the unresolved weight in her silence. He gave her hand a final, gentle squeeze before releasing it. "Come," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "Let's sit."

He guided her from the kitchen into the living room, where the large, worn couch faced a fireplace that was dark and cold. The record player had fallen silent, leaving the house in a deep, waiting quiet. Matilda let herself be led, her mug of tea still warm in her hands.

They sat side by side, but not touching. Henry leaned back, his eyes fixed on the empty hearth as if seeing something else entirely. Matilda placed her mug on the low wooden table in front of them, the clink of ceramic loud in the stillness.

She took a breath, gathering the courage that had been simmering since he returned. "Henry," she began, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "What are you really up to? When you're gone... what are you doing?"

He didn't look at her immediately. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on his knee. "I have responsibilities, Matilda. Things that require my attention."

"That's not an answer," she said, more sharply than she intended. She softened her tone. "I know you don't tell me everything. You keep secrets. But I need to know. Why is there an Upside Down? How did it come to Hawkins? What started all of this?"

Henry finally turned his head to look at her. His expression was unreadable, a mask of calm that she had learned could hide storms. "Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed," he said cryptically. "Hawkins was... a convergence. A weak point."

"But why?" Matilda pressed, leaning forward. "Who opened it? Was it an accident, or was it..." She trailed off, the name of the lab, of Brenner, hanging unspoken in the air between them.

Henry's gaze drifted back to the cold fireplace. He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. The quiet in the house deepened, becoming a physical thing, a weight on her skin.

"Imagine the world as a sheet of paper," he began, his voice measured and low. "Strong, whole. Then imagine a single point where the fibers begin to weaken. From a stress no one saw. A... pressure, from the other side. Hawkins was that point. The paper thinned. And then, it tore."

"From the other side," Matilda repeated, her mind flashing to the cold, static void. "But what's on the other side? What caused the pressure?"

A faint, almost imperceptible tension tightened the line of his jaw. "Life," he said simply. "A different kind. Hungry, simple, and old. It was always there, just... elsewhere. The tear let it through. It also let other things through. Energy. Ideas." He glanced at her, his dark eyes reflecting the dim light. "People like us."

*Us.* The word hung in the air. He meant her. He meant himself. The kids in Hawkins. It wasn't an accident they were all drawn there.

"Did you make the tear?" The question left her lips before she could stop it, blunt and trembling.

His expression didn't change, but the energy in the room shifted, growing heavier, cooler. "I found it," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "As a child. I was drawn to it. I saw the fault lines in our world long before anyone else. The lab... they saw a tool. A weapon. They poked and prodded at the tear, made it wider. They wanted to control what came through. They did not understand that you cannot control a flood by opening the dam wider."

Matilda absorbed this, her hands clenched in her lap. So it was the lab. Their experiments, with Henry, with others, had worsened it. "And the gate? The one in the lab?"

"A forced rupture," Henry said, a trace of cold disdain in his voice. "Crude. Painful. Like surgery with a rusty blade. It made everything... louder. More violent. The things that came through after that were angrier."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and finally looked directly at her, his gaze intense. "You ask what I am doing when I am gone. I am maintaining a balance. This house, this place, is quiet. The tear here is small, old. I keep it stable. Contained. Other places... are not so quiet. Other pressures build. I manage them. So the paper does not tear further."

It was more than he had ever told her, and yet it felt like he’d given her a map with all the key landmarks missing. He was a custodian of these rifts, a self-appointed warden. But for whose benefit? The thought came unbidden: *His own.*

"What happens if you don't 'manage' them?" she asked.

For the first time, a real emotion flickered in his eyes—not anger, but a profound, weary certainty. "Then the wrong things find their way through. Or the right things find their way in. The infection spreads. Hawkins was a lesson. I do not intend to repeat it."

Matilda sat back against the couch, the old fabric scratchy through her shirt. Her tea was going cold on the table. He had given her pieces, but the picture they formed was terrifying. He saw himself as the solution, the only one strong enough to hold back the darkness he had helped understand. It was a lonely, immense burden, and it explained his secrecy, his absences.

It also meant he was deeply, intrinsically tied to the very thing that haunted her friends. He wasn't just a survivor of it; he was its keeper.

She reached for her mug, more for something to do than from thirst. The silence stretched again, but now it was filled with the echoes of his words. The quiet of the house felt less like peace and more like a held breath.

Henry watched her, waiting. He had offered a truth, a sliver of it, and now he was measuring her reaction, seeing if this new knowledge would bind her to his side or send her running.

Matilda took a sip of the lukewarm tea. The taste of chamomile was faint, overwhelmed by the bitterness of understanding. "Thank you," she said finally, her voice quiet. "For telling me."

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch20

The living room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace. The amber glow painted the wooden walls in flickering light, catching on the dust that drifted in the air like fragile memories. Matilda sat curled in the armchair, an old library book—*Theories of Altered States*—spread open in her hands. Her fingers traced the rough edges of the pages, but her eyes barely scanned the words. Instead, they focused on nothing, lost in the fragments of the past that refused to form a full picture. The weight of the unanswered questions pressed harder each day, a dull ache beneath her ribs.

Her fingers tapped idly against the spine of the book, then stilled as the front door creaked open. The floorboards groaned under familiar footsteps—measured, but heavier than usual. She lifted her head. Henry stepped inside, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. His face was etched with exhaustion, the kind that darkened the hollows beneath his eyes and made his sharp features blur at the edges. But when he saw her waiting, recognition flickered in his gaze. He didn’t need words to understand.

"You want to talk?" His hands folded behind him before his mouth moved, a habit from years of silent exchanges.

Matilda nodded, her pulse quickening. She motioned for him to follow her back to the living room. The firelight caught the tangled strands of his hair as he sank onto the couch beside her, shadows carving deep lines into his face.

“I need to know,” she said, her voice low but steady. Only the slightest tremor betrayed her. “How did I *really* lose my memory? The last thing I remember—” Her fingers twitched at the end of her shirt, "Them. Taking me. Away from you."

A shadow darkened Henry’s expression. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms over his face before forcing his hands to move again, each motion deliberate, as if every word was being dragged from some hidden wound.

"They knew." He admits before continuing. "They knew I escaped. Hawkins Lab wanted me back. They came for you because your family wasn’t home. They followed schedules—watched everything."

Matilda clenched her fists. She could still see them—black uniforms, gloved hands, eyes devoid of mercy. Not Brenner’s calculating stare, but the others. The ones who acted like machines.

"They gave me a choice," Henry continued. "Go back willingly, or they would kill you." His jaw flexed; his next words stuttered. "I begged Brenner. I told him you didn’t know anything… but then—"

He paused. Matilda saw his throat work before he forced them to move again.

"They grabbed you. I told them to stop, to leave you alone… but one of them—" His fingers brushed his own temple, a mirror of where the blow had fallen. "—hit you. Hard. From behind. You went down. And I… I stopped fighting."

Matilda’s breath caught. The old ache in her skull flared, a phantom echo of the impact. "Brenner just… left me there?"

Henry nodded. "He said you wouldn’t remember. That they’d make it look like a break-in. Then they took me back." His hands slid over hers, clinging like an anchor. "And they punished me. Over and over."

The fire hissed. The truth settled between them like ash on burnt wood—hot, suffocating. Matilda’s vision swam with fury, grief, the sharp edges of reality cutting too deep.

She squeezed Henry’s hands and inched closer, her knee brushing his. "My parents. Did they ever know? Or did they just… believe the lie?"

Henry hesitated. "At first, they believed. But your mother… she kept digging." A pause. "She found records. Not enough, but enough to ask questions."

Matilda’s pulse roared in her ears. "And?"

His gaze darkened. "Brenner got to them too. Made them forget. But worse." The signs came slower now, jagged. "Vegetative state. Sent to a mental home, and—"He stopped, swallowing hard.

"How long ago was this?" Her fingers trembled.

"Four years." His hands lingered on the last word, heavy with implication. "From an illness. Took everyone in the building."

The weight of it crushed her lungs. She turned toward the fire, unable to look at him. The flames licked hungrily at the logs, reflecting the rage clawing up her throat.

Henry pulled her into his arms. She let him, burying her face into his coat, the scent of snow and cedar faint beneath the lingering tang of cold metal. His hands stroked down her back, slow, grounding.

"How can they fucking get away with this?" She choked.

"I don’t know," he admitted, rough against her hair. "By the time I found out, it was already over."

Silence. The fire cracked, a sound like bones breaking. Matilda’s fists clenched until her knuckles turned white, her body shaking with silent sobs against his chest.

Then—something else stirred beneath the grief.

*Later.*

Exhaustion dragged her under. Henry covered her with a quilt, his fingers lingering on her shoulder before he moved away—the muffled clatter of pans in the kitchen, the scent of spices threading through the haze of grief.

She dreamed.

Not the fractured nightmares of black vans and needles, but Hawkins. Familiar, yet wrong. Empty streets, the diner boarded up, trees clawing through cracked pavement. No birds. No voices. Just wind whistling through hollow buildings. *Was she dream walking without knowing?*

Then—a figure.

Will Byers stood at the corner of the vacant playground, staring at her like she was a ghost.

"Matilda?" His voice cracked. "You’re—real?"

She frowned. "Of course I am."

Will’s face paled. "But you died. Mom told me—car crash. Your brakes failed and found a charred piece of your skull."

Ice flooded her veins. "No. I just blacked out… and my brakes werent working before it happened."

Will stepped closer, eyes wide. "Then where have you been? Did they take you too?"

The dream twisted.

Something cold brushed her arm.

Matilda jolted awake to Henry tucking the blanket tighter around her. His mouth moved—"You moving in your sleep."—before his hand moved some hair out of Matilda's face. "Dinner’s almost ready."

She caught his wrist before he could pull away. "But i was Dream walking but it wasn’t just a dream." The words stuck in her throat. "Will was there. He said I—"

Henry’s expression darkened. "It's all in your head. Its the monsters getting to you. I’ll go check the perimeter. Creatures have been closer tonight." He hesitated, thumb brushing her cheek. "Be safe. I'll be back soon."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her with the dying fire and the echo of Will’s voice: *Where have you been? Did they take you too?*

The spark inside her flared hotter.

---

Meanwhile, on the cracked asphalt of a deserted highway, the roar of Jonathan’s car engine cut through the night.

Will jolted upright in the backseat, gasping. “Matilda—!”

Steve flinched hard, nearly elbowing Robin. “Jesus Christ, kid—!”

Nancy twisted around, eyes wide. “Will? What’s wrong?”

His chest heaved. “I saw her. Matilda. She was—alive. She didn’t *know*.” His voice cracked. “She didn’t know she was dead.”

A beat of silence. The radio static hissed.

Robin exchanged a glance with Steve. “Will, Matilda’s… been gone for four days. The cops found the car—there was no way she—”

“No.” Will clutched the seat. “She was *real*. Someone woke her up before I could—”

Jonathan’s grip tightened on the wheel. The mall’s neon sign blinked in the distance, blood-red against the dark.

Nancy reached back, squeezing Will’s knee. “Just breathe. We’ll… figure it out.”

But her eyes, in the rearview mirror, were already scanning the trees—like something might be watching.

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch19

The drive to the Wheelers’ house had been silent, the weight of Will’s late-night urgency hanging in the air. Matilda’s hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, her knuckles pale under the dim glow of the dashboard lights. Something wasn’t right—she could *feel* it, a prickling beneath her skin that had nothing to do with the cool autumn air seeping through the cracked window.

When she stepped into the basement, the usual buzz of conversation was missing. The room felt heavy. The kids—Mike, Lucas, and Will—sat clustered around the couch, their faces too serious for teenagers. Even Eleven was unusually quiet, her fingers twisting at the hem of her shirt with Max next to her.

Lucas was the first to speak, his voice low and steady. *"We brought everyone here because Will told us something important last night."*

Will exhaled shakily, his hands pressed together like he was steeling himself. *"It’s back. The Mind Flayer."* The name alone sent a ripple through the room. *"I’ve felt it ever since Dustin got back. It’s… looking for a new host."*

Matilda’s breath hitched. Without thinking, the words slipped out—"Oh my God," her voice raw just slightly. The room went still, eyes snapping to her in surprise. She rarely spoke aloud, always preferring the fluid motion of ASL, but this—this wasn’t something she could sign fast enough.

Max frowned. *"Matilda? What is it?"*

"It’s Billy," she said, the name tasting bitter. "He showed up at my cabin last night. Like he’d been in a crash. But it wasn’t him. His eyes—they weren’t right. Like something was… behind them."

Mike leaned forward. "Are you sure?"

Matilda’s jaw tightened. She *knew* what she’d seen. The way Billy had moved—too stiff, too deliberate—like his body was just a shell. And his eyes—fleeting flashes of something darker beneath the blue.

Eleven’s voice cut through the silence, small but firm. "He’s taken."

The room erupted into overlapping voices, plans, protests. But Matilda barely heard them. A memory flickered at the edges of her mind—fragmented, like a half-remembered dream. If the Mind Flayer was back, and Billy was its vessel… then it wasn’t just Hawkins it wanted.

It was *her.*

Matilda’s pulse roared in her ears as she snapped back to the moment. The kids were still arguing, voices rising, but she didn’t have time.

She stood abruptly, chair scraping. Eleven looked up. "Where you going?" Her dark eyes searching.

Matilda turned to El when they half way up the stairs. "Getting help. Stay safe."

She hesitated, then did something she never did—leaned down, pressing a kiss to Eleven’s forehead. The girl’s tiny gasp followed her as she bolted up the stairs.

Her truck sputtered to life. The Wheelers’ house faded in the rearview, replaced by one thought: *Nancy and Jonathan.*

But the newspaper office was quiet. The lady at the front desk barely glanced up. *"They’re out. Want me to—"*

Matilda scribbled a note. *"Tell them Matilda came by. It’s about Holly. Emergency."*

Lie. But Nancy would move faster for her little sister.

Back in the truck, the road blurred. She didn’t even see the stop sign until her foot jammed the brake—nothing.

No resistance.

The truck didn’t slow.

Panic clawed up her throat. She yanked the wheel, swerving past an oncoming car—tires screeching, metal screaming as the truck flipped, rolling down the slope.

Then—crunch.

Everything went black.

Somewhere above, a car door slammed. *"Hello? Anyone!"*

Footsteps crunched closer.

Lucas’ dad peered into the wreckage. *"Oh my— Matilda?!"*

Silence.

Then—a rustle. Something *moving* inside the crushed truck. Not Matilda. Something *dragging* her back into the dark.

---

Jim jerked awake to the sound of Joyce’s hushed voice. She was talking to someone on the phone, gripping the receiver like it might bite her.

“Who was it?” Jim rasped, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Joyce hung up slowly, her face pinched. “Fire department,” she whispered. “They found Matilda’s truck. Wrecked. Lucas’ dad saw the whole thing—said he found her unconscious body halfway out before—” Her voice cracked.

Jim stiffened. “Before what?”

“It exploded.” Joyce wrapped her arms around herself. “No body. Just… gone.”

Jim’s stomach dropped. He grabbed his jacket, keys already in hand. “We’re going there now.”

---

Matilda’s eyelids fluttered open. Warm light pressed against them. The air smelled like cedar and old books. And for the first time in years, sound—*actual sound*—filled her ears. A heartbeat. A chair creaking.

She bolted upright, fingers flying to her throat.

"You can hear me."

The voice was smooth, almost amused. She turned.

Henry stood near a bookshelf, watching her. He looked younger than he should—hair neatly combed, glasses perched on his nose. Like he’d stepped out of an old memory.

Matilda scrambled back, hands fisting in silk sheets. "You’re supposed to be *dead.* Victor told me—"

"I survived,” Henry said softly. He didn’t move closer. “My father’s curse… I adapted. Learned control. But not before—" He hesitated, jaw tightening. "Before the accident. With you."

Her fingers brushed her ears. "That was *you*?"

"It wasn’t intentional." His voice cracked. "I never meant to hurt you, Matilda."

She stared at him, searching for the lie. His eyes—dark, tired—held none.

A memory flickered. The hospital. Her waking up alone, the ringing silence pressing in. The doctors saying words she couldn’t hear.

"You brought me here," she whispered. "Why?"

Henry exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Because you're the only one who I can't risk losing again."

The room seemed to tilt. Outside the window, sunlight dappled the trees—too bright, too perfect. She knew this wasn’t real. Not *all* of it.

Slowly, she reached out.

Henry’s hand was warm. Alive.

And for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

Matilda pulled back slightly, searching Henry’s face. "What happened on that trip? Your family, the Grand Canyon—why won’t you talk about it?"

Henry’s smile faded. He looked away, jaw stiff. "Some things are better left buried."

She wasn’t buying it. Shadows flickered in his eyes—something raw, unsaid. She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. "I *know* when someone’s hiding."

He caught her wrist, sighing. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then he leaned in, his mouth finding hers before she could ask again. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, like he was trying to silence something inside himself.

Matilda tensed—then melted. His hands tangled in her hair, warm against her skin. When they broke apart, his breath was shaky. "Having you here… *alive*—that’s what matters."

She frowned. "Avoidance isn’t gonna work forever, Henry."

He chuckled, thumb tracing her lip. "Yeah, figured you’d say that."

The moment hung between them, heavy. Whatever happened back then, it still haunted him. And she wasn’t letting go until she knew why.

Henry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was stalling. "I gotta go check something. Alone."

Matilda crossed her arms. "Seriously? After *that* kiss?"

A smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Flattered, but no. There’s things out there—old things. Nasty." His fingers brushed her cheek. "You don’t know this place like I do."

She caught his wrist. "Then tell me."

Henry hesitated, glancing at the window where the woods stretched, dark and too still. "This house is safe. *Your* home now." He ducked his head, voice dropping. "We knew that, even when we were kids. Some part of you remembers."

Matilda frowned. "Remember *what*?"

Instead of answering, he kissed her cheek—quick, soft—and stepped back. "Stay inside."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Matilda stared at it, pulse humming. She counted to ten before bolting after him.

The woods swallowed sound. Twigs snapped under her boots, the air thick with something sharp—ozone and rotting leaves.

A branch cracked ahead.

She froze.

Something *hissed*, low and wet, slithering between the trees.

Then—silence.

Matilda exhaled. Maybe Henry wasn’t wrong.

---

Hours have rolled by as Joyce, Jim, and the fire department scanned the charred wreckage of Matilda's truck to find anything. The firefighter’s voice was too quiet when he called Hopper over. "Chief… you need to see this."

Jim’s chest tightened before he even looked. A charred fragment lay in the —too small, too jagged. Part of a skull. Female.

Joyce sucked in a breath beside him. "That’s not—"

"It’s not *her*," Jim cut in, rough. He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

The firefighter rubbed his neck, uneasy. "We’ll run tests, but—"

"Yeah. Do that." Jim turned away, scrubbing a hand down his face. He couldn’t shake the feeling this was wrong. Matilda didn’t just… vanish.

Joyce’s fingers brushed his arm. "You okay?"

"No." He pulled out his keys. "Call the kids’ families. Tell ‘em… hell, I dunno. Say we’re looking. That’s it."

Joyce nodded, biting her lip. "Where are you going?"

"Paperwork." Liar. He was gonna tear apart every inch of those woods himself.

As he walked off, his boot scuffed something in the dirt—a scrap of fabric, barely singed. Matilda’s shirt. And next to it… drag marks. Deep, uneven, like something heavy had been pulled toward the trees.

Jim pocketed the fabric before anyone noticed.

Not Matilda’s skull. Not her body.

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch18

Matilda stepped into Starcourt Mall, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the hum of distant conversations and clattering shopping bags filled the air—or at least, she assumed they did. The world was silent for her, but she had learned to read its rhythms through vibrations, flashing neon signs, and the way people’s lips moved when they spoke.

She adjusted the strap of her bag, scanning the crowd. The mall was busy, a strange mix of Hawkins’ locals and out-of-towners drawn in by the shiny new attraction. Matilda wasn’t here for shopping. She needed something to wear before visiting Victor Creel—something that wouldn’t make her stand out too much but would still let her move freely.

As she wandered past stores, her eyes caught a familiar head of hair behind the counter of Scoops Ahoy. *Steve Harrington.* His blue uniform was wrinkled, and he looked *bored,* leaning on the counter while Robin, his co-worker, fiddled with the cash register.

Matilda hesitated. She hadn’t planned on stopping, but the thought of an icy drink—something to jolt her awake—sounded good. More importantly, she needed the practice. Victor Creel was blind. ASL wouldn’t work this time.

She walked over, fingers brushing the small bell on the counter before giving it a firm tap.

Robin looked up, blinking in surprise before grinning. “Hey! Didn’t see you there. What’ll it be?”

Matilda focused, feeling the unfamiliar tension in her throat as she forced the words out. Her voice was quiet, slightly rough from lack of use, but clear enough. “Do—do you have any shakes? With caffeine?”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh—yeah! Coffee-flavored, actually. Steve swears it’s gross, but he has bad taste in basically everything—”

Before she could finish, the back door of the shop burst open. Dustin Henderson practically tripped over his own feet in his hurry, Steve right behind him, both of them staring at Matilda like she’d just pulled a rabbit out of thin air.

“You *talk*?!” Dustin blurted.

Matilda smirked. “Surprise.”

Dustin whipped around to Steve, bouncing. “Dude! You *heard* that, right? That wasn’t, like, a shared hallucination?”

Steve looked just as stunned, mouth hanging open before snapping shut again. “Yeah, I heard it. Holy shit.”

Matilda rolled her eyes but laughed—an actual, audible sound that felt strange in her own ears. “Yes, I talk. Just *prefer* not to most of the time.”

Dustin practically vibrated with excitement. “Can you *hear* now? Is that—wait, no, you didn’t react when the door slammed—”

“Still deaf,” Matilda confirmed, signing as she spoke out of habit before catching herself. “But I’m seeing someone today who won’t know ASL, so…” She shrugged.

Steve crossed his arms, shifting into full mom-friend mode. “Who? Because if it’s some creepy guy from the lab or—”

“Relax,” Matilda cut him off. “Just an old friend. You don’t know them.”

Dustin squinted. “That sounds *extremely* suspicious. But more importantly—what are you *doing* here, Steve? Did Robin finally convince you to commit a felony?”

Robin groaned. “Oh my God, *no*—”

Steve groaned louder. “*No.* We were just—”

Matilda raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You two *actually* doing something stupid that might get you killed?”

Dustin and Steve exchanged a look.

Matilda sighed. “I’m gonna need that shake *extra* strong.”

Dustin grabbed Matilda’s wrist and yanked her toward the backroom, Steve hot on their heels. The second the door swung shut, Dustin burst out, “Okay, so I was trying to talk to Suzie—long-distance, super tricky—and I *swear* I caught a Russian transmission! Like, full-on Soviet gibberish!”

Matilda stared. “You *what*? Did you learn *nothing* from the Dart nonsense?”

Steve threw his hands up. “Hey, don’t look at me! I told him this was a bad idea!”

She gave him her best *are-you-kidding-me* glare. “You’re the adult here. Supposedly.”

Steve groaned. “Oh, come *on*—”

Robin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I *told* them they sounded like conspiracy nutjobs.”

Dustin ignored her, bouncing on his toes. “But what if the Russians are *here*? Like, in Hawkins! Under the mall!”

Matilda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Even if—*big* if—that’s true, what’s the genius plan? Break in? Get *shot*?”

Steve rubbed his temples. “God, why am I even involved in this…”

Dustin grinned. “Because you *love* us. And also, someone’s gotta drive.”

Robin snorted. “Wow. Real airtight logic.”

Matilda smirked at Robin, switching back to her voice—still rough but getting smoother with use. “Make that shake to go. And full permission to smack these two if they try anything stupid.” She pulled a thirty from her wallet and slid it across the counter. “Keep the change.”

Robin grinned, snapping the bill up. “Oh, I *will* take this, and I *will* smack them.”

Steve groaned. “Unbelievable. You’re *enabling* her.”

“I’m rewarding her for dealing with *you*,” Matilda shot back, snatching her shake as Robin handed it over. She took a long sip, relishing the icy burn of caffeine.

Dustin pouted. “Rude.”

“Truth.” Matilda ruffled his hair before ducking out of the shop, leaving behind the chaos. The mall buzzed around her—couples arguing over shoes, kids begging for arcade tokens—but she tuned it out, heading straight for a small boutique tucked near the back.

Inside, she grabbed a dark, loose-fitting sweater and black jeans—nothing flashy, nothing memorable. Perfect for slipping in and out of places unnoticed. The cashier barely glanced up as Matilda paid, already scanning the store for her next stop.

Three stores down, she found it: a sketchy-looking pharmacy with a neon “Herbal Remedies” sign flickering in the window. The clerk—a guy with too much eyeliner—barely blinked when she tapped the counter and pointed at the little jar of “Sleepy Time” gummies behind the glass.

“Good stuff,” he said, sliding them over. “Knocks you right out.”

Matilda nodded, dropping cash. “Exactly what I need.”

She stuffed the gummies in her bag. If things went sideways tonight, at least she had a backup plan. And if not? Well, insomnia wasn’t fun either. Win-win.

---

Matilda’s truck rumbled down the winding road to Pennhurst Asylum, gravel spitting under the tires. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky bruised purple and orange. The asylum loomed ahead, its gothic facade cracked and weathered, more like a nightmare than a building.

She parked in the shadows of an oak tree, the branches clawing at the moon. Silence. Even without sound, the air itself seemed to whisper—warnings, pleas, memories she couldn’t grasp.

*Deep breaths.*

Matilda grabbed her bag, fingers brushing the jar of “Sleepy Time” gummies she’d bought earlier. *Insurance,* she thought. If tonight went sideways, she’d rather be knocked out than trapped in some hallucination.

The front doors groaned when she pushed them open, the lobby sterile and suffocating. Fluorescent lights flickered like dying stars. A bored-looking receptionist glanced up, chewing gum like it was a personal insult.

“Visiting hours ended at six,” she droned.

Matilda forced her voice out, steady despite the unfamiliar weight of it. “I’m here for Victor Creel. Family.”

The woman’s eyebrow arched. “Creel doesn’t *have* family.”

Matilda didn’t blink. “He does now. Check your records.”

A tense silence. Then the receptionist sighed, flipping through a clipboard. “Fine. But you get *ten minutes*. And don’t expect talk.” She waved a hand toward a burly guard leaning against the wall. “Escort her to Creel.”

The guard grimaced but led her down a maze of corridors, the walls streaked with years of grime. The deeper they went, the heavier the air felt—thick with mildew, antiseptic, something *wrong*.

The guard stopped at a heavy metal door, rust flaking off the hinges. “Creel’s in solitary,” he muttered. “Didn’t play nice with the others. They say he talks to the walls.” He hesitated. “You sure you wanna do this, lady?”

Matilda nodded.

He sighed, unlocked the door, and stepped aside. “Ten minutes. Scream if you need out.”

The cell was small, dark, and reeked of damp linen and old blood. A hunched figure sat on the cot, his back to her, fingers tracing the air like he was reading invisible text.

Matilda swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Victor Creel.” *Louder.* “Victor.”

The man stilled. Then, slowly, he turned. His eyelids were sewn shut, the skin beneath them hollowed and scarred.

“Who’s there?” His voice was cracked, parched.

Matilda steadied herself. “Matilda Hamilton.”

Victor’s breath hitched. “Matilda.” He said it like a prayer. “You—you survived?”

“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “But I remember *him*. And I need to know why.”

Victor’s hands twitched. “Henry told me about you. Before the curse. Before *everything*.” A bitter laugh. “He loved you, you know. Always talking about you when you werent around. I see thta look inhis eyes when you did come visit."

"What happened?" Matilda asked.

Victor’s fingers clenched. “The curse happened. And Henry… changed. We *all* did.” He leaned forward, blind eyes somehow *fixing* on her. “Why come now?”

Matilda took a slow breath. "I woke up with nothing," she said, voice rough but steady. "No family, no past—just Henry. Because I *remembered* Henry."

Victor’s hands trembled. "Just Henry?"

"Pieces," she admitted. "But not enough."

The old man let out a shaky sigh. "Henry said you fell and hit your head on a rock as you two usually played in the woods."

Matilda’s stomach twisted. "And my family…?"

Victor’s face darkened. "Gone. Same way mine was." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Henry thought he was saving you. But when he *changed*—"

A chill shot down her spine. "Changed how?"

Before he could answer, the door creaked. The guard poked his head in. "Time’s up."

Matilda shot to her feet. "Five more minutes."

"Not happening, lady."

She clenched her fists but nodded. As she turned to leave, Victor’s voice rasped after her: "If you listen for the clock. Your next"

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch17

Matilda’s eyes burned from exhaustion, the dim glow of her oil lamp casting long shadows across the journal’s weathered pages. She had read and reread the entries until the words blurred, but the answers she needed remained stubbornly out of reach. The silence of the cabin pressed in around her, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves outside her window. Dawn was creeping in, pale and uncertain, when she finally snapped the journal shut.

A wave of dizziness hit her as she stood—sharp and sudden, like the ground had tilted beneath her. She braced a hand against the wall, swallowing hard until the spinning stopped. *Sleep deprivation. Or something worse.* She shook it off.

Coffee. She needed coffee—strong enough to shake the fog from her mind.

The drive into town was quiet, Hawkins still half-asleep at this hour. Main Street was a shadow of what it used to be, storefronts dark and forgotten since Starcourt Mall had siphoned away the last of the town’s bustle. The only place still reliably open was the diner across from Melvald’s, where Joyce Byers worked. Matilda parked, sighing as she flexed her stiff fingers. She could already taste the bitter black roast she craved.

The bell above the door jingled as she entered, the smell of grease and fresh grounds wrapping around her. She didn’t bother glancing at the laminated menu—her usual was already stirring behind the counter before she reached it. A flick of her hands, quick and precise in ASL, and the waitress nodded. *Large. Black. No sugar.*

Matilda tucked herself into a corner booth, the steam from her cup curling under her nose. She cupped it between her palms, letting the heat seep into her skin. The first sip was scalding, bitter, perfect. Outside the window, Hawkins stirred to life—a few early risers, the rumble of a lone car.

Then, movement caught her eye.

Joyce Byers. Of *course* it was Joyce, hurrying down the sidewalk with Hopper trailing just behind her. Matilda slumped lower into her seat, pretending sudden fascination with the chipped rim of her mug. Maybe if she didn’t move, they wouldn’t—

The door swung open. Jim’s familiar voice rumbled under the clatter of dishes, Joyce’s sharper tones cutting in. Matilda tensed. She grabbed a napkin, scribbling *Closed. Need space* on it in quick, jagged letters, then crumpled it in her fist.

Too late.

“Matilda?” Joyce’s voice was honeyed concern, but there was steel beneath it. Matilda exhaled through her nose and turned, catching Joyce’s lips forming the shape of her name again. “You *never* come into town this early.”

Hopper loomed behind her, arms crossed. His gaze said enough: *You’re avoiding us.*

Matilda forced a shrug, fingers tapping the side of her cup. *Just needed coffee.*

Joyce wasn’t buying it. She slid into the booth opposite her, undeterred. “We *know* something’s going on. You’ve been holed up in that cabin for days. And now this—” She made a vague gesture at the dark circles under Matilda’s eyes.

Matilda clenched her jaw. The journal in her bag felt like a weight.

Then the dizziness hit again. Her vision blurred—the diner’s fluorescent lights pooling into streaks of white. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

Joyce’s lips moved, frantic, but Matilda only caught fragments. *—okay? Matilda—*

“Woah, easy.” Hopper’s deep voice cut through the haze. His hands steadied her shoulders before she could pitch sideways.

Matilda blinked hard, willing the world back into focus. She waved him off—*I’m fine*—but her hands trembled.

Hopper crossed his arms. “Yeah, real convincing.”

Joyce fished a glass of water from a passing tray and pushed it toward her. “When’s the last time you slept? Or ate?”

Matilda ignored the water and reached for her keys instead. *Gotta go.*

“The hell you do.” Hopper snatched the keys from her hand before she could stand.

Matilda stiffened. *What the hell, Jim?*

“You’re in no state to drive,” he growled. “Look at you—you nearly face-planted into the damn table.”

Matilda’s fingers slashed through the air. *Not your call.*

Hopper’s sigh was as heavy as his glare. “Fine. Then at least tell us what’s going on before you collapse somewhere. Again.”

Joyce’s hand landed warm on Matilda’s wrist. “Please.”

Matilda exhaled, shoulders slumping. She dug the journal from her bag and flipped to the marked pages. Then, the faded Polaroid—her and Henry as kids, their grins stark against the yellowed edges.

Joyce sucked in a breath. “Who’s that?”

Matilda’s fingers hesitated before signing, slow and deliberate: *My best friend. The reason I’m deaf.*

Hopper stiffened. “What?”

She tapped the photo, then the journal’s scribbled medical notes. *Accidental discharge of energy*, circled in red. *Henry had powers. Like El. The lab hurt him. When I got too close, he—* She mimed an explosion by her temple.

Joyce’s face paled. “Jesus.”

Hopper leaned in, lowering his voice. “So what, you think Henry’s still out there? That he’s… what, hiding?”

Matilda nodded. *And he doesn’t want to be found.*

Silence settled, thick as the diner’s syrup-glazed air.

Joyce squeezed her hand. “We’ll help. But you can’t do this alone, Matilda. Not like this.”

Hopper pocketed her keys—infuriatingly casual—and jerked his chin toward the door. “You’re riding with me. We’ll grab your truck later.”

Matilda glowered. *I hate you.*

He smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Save it for when you’re not swaying like a drunk.”

Joyce stood, dropping a twenty on the table.

---

Matilda’s fingers curled around the armrest of Hopper’s police van as the engine rumbled to life. The vinyl seat was cold against her back, but the exhaustion pooling in her bones kept her slumped against it, her eyelids heavy. She let out a yawn before she could stifle it, rubbing at her temples with the heel of her palm.

Hopper shot her a glance as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “You look like hell.”

Matilda scowled, signing sharply. *Thanks. Needed that.*

“I’m serious,” he grunted, turning onto the winding road that led deeper into the woods. “When’s the last time you slept?”

Matilda exhaled through her nose, flexing her stiff fingers before answering. *Maybe six days.*

Hopper’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Jesus Christ, Matilda.”

She rolled her eyes. *Not a kid, Jim. Twenty-eight. Think I can handle myself.*

“Yeah, real convincing,” he muttered. “Six days without sleep isn’t ‘handling it.’ It’s a death wish. Especially when you’re chasing ghosts.”

The words stung despite the fatigue. Matilda straightened, her fingers moving faster now, jagged with irritation. *Not ghosts. My past. My family. You know that.*

Hopper’s jaw stiffened. “And what good is finding them gonna do if you drop dead first?”

Matilda’s hands froze. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but frustration clawed its way up her throat, raw and unfamiliar. “When *you* disappear for days—weeks—hunting monsters, does *anyone* ask if *you* slept?”

The moment the words left her lips, she regretted them. Hopper’s expression darkened, his knuckles whitening around the steering wheel.

Silence settled between them, thick and sour.

Matilda turned her head toward the window, watching the trees blur past. The early sunlight filtered through the pines in fractured beams, painting the dashboard in streaks of gold.

After a long moment, Hopper sighed. “Fair point.” His voice was quieter now, almost grudging. “But you still shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Matilda flicked her fingers dismissively. *I’m fine.*

Hopper scoffed. “Yeah. Sure.”

The van slowed as they reached the fork in the road—one path winding toward town, the other cutting deeper into the woods toward her cabin. Hopper parked just outside her cabin, his scowl deep enough to carve lines in his forehead. "Go. Sleep."

Matilda shot him a look but dragged herself out of the van. She didn't sign back—just trudged up the porch steps, keys jingling in her stiff fingers. The door thudded shut behind her, lock clicking loud in the quiet.

She barely made it to the couch before collapsing. The journal slipped from her bag, spilling half-read notes on the floor, but she didn’t care. Sleep hit her like a truck.

Somewhere between midnight and morning, the creak of a floorboard jerked her awake.

Gun already in hand, she crept toward the noise. The moonlight through the curtains painted the room in streaks of silver—just bright enough to spot the figure at her door.

Billy.

Except... not. His knuckles were white on the doorframe, face scraped up like he’d wrestled pavement. "I crashed my car from almost hitting a deer." He told her.

Matilda hesitated but lowered the gun. She grabbed her first aid kit instead, waving him inside.

The cuts weren't bad—just shallow scratches, easy to clean. But Billy... he didn't flinch. Didn't joke. Just watched her like he was trying to remember something.

"You always patch up strangers?" he asked, too quiet.

Matilda swiped antiseptic over his cheekbone, her fingers steady.

Matilda set down the cotton swab, shaking the bottle of antiseptic. "Only reason you're getting this," she said, voice rough from disuse, "is 'cause I don't wanna deal with you getting an infection in my cabin."

Billy chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He studied her like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve—way more than a stranger should.

"You'd make a terrible nurse," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes, dabbing at a cut on his jaw. "Yeah? And you're a terrible driver."

His smile faded. For a second, she swore his pupils dilated—lighter blue than before—but then he blinked, and it was gone. Sleep deprivation. Had to be.

Billy caught her wrist before she could pull away. "You always this prickly?"

She yanked free, signing *"Always"* before remembering he wouldn’t understand.

His grin returned, crooked and knowing. "Guess I’ll learn."

Something squirmed in her chest. She busied herself recapping the antiseptic.

Billy stood, rolling his shoulders like he was testing his skin. "Weird night."

Matilda arched a brow.

"Keep expecting to wake up," he added, quieter.

She swallowed. Yeah. She knew that feeling.

The first aid kit snapped shut. Billy lingered by the door, gaze heavy.

"You should sleep," he said.

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch16

The summer heat pressed down on Hawkins, the kind that made the pavement shimmer and the cicadas scream from the trees. Life moved lazily—kids biking to the pool, neighbors gossiping over lemonade—but Matilda Hamilton wasn’t part of that rhythm. She never had been.

The Hawkins Public Library was quiet, dust motes swirling in the sunbeams sneaking through the blinds. Matilda had slipped in just as the librarian stepped out for lunch, her footsteps silent on the worn carpet. She moved with purpose, skimming the archives for anything on the Creel family. There it was—a yellowed newspaper clipping, faded ink spelling out tragedy. The whole family dead, except the father. Victor Creel, locked away in Pennhurst, labeled a murderer, then a madman.

Her fingers traced the words. *Not easy to get inside unless you’re family.* She chewed her lip, already scheming. Jim was wrapped up in family time with El, and the Wheelers were... well, normal. She was on her own.

A sudden flashlight beam cut through the dim aisle, harsh against her face. She winced, squinting up at the silhouette of a cop—Callahan, from Jim’s unit. His mouth moved, but she caught only fragments. *“—doing here?”* Then his partner, a rookie with a tight grip, stepped forward, already reaching for cuffs.

*Oh, right. They forget.*

Matilda held up her hands, sharp and deliberate—*Stop.* She signed, slow, clear. But the rookie didn’t care. His fingers closed around her wrist, jerking her up. The metal of the cuffs bit into her skin, cold and impersonal. She didn’t resist. Let them think they won.

The cruiser smelled like stale coffee and sweat. Matilda pressed her forehead against the window, watching Hawkins blur past. She could see her own reflection—the sharp angles of her face, the way her hair stuck to her neck in the heat. How many times had she been invisible here? Yet now, they noticed.

Then Jim was there, badge glinting under the station’s fluorescent lights. His hands moved, signing quick and firm. *“What the hell, Matilda?”*

She exhaled, fingers flicking back. *“I need answers.”*

Jim rubbed his temples, nodding to the other cops to step away. When the door clicked shut behind them, it was just her, him, and all the things she couldn’t say out loud.

*"Pennhurst’s locked down tight,”* he signed, frustration tightening his jaw. *“I don’t have clearance. No one does unless you’re blood or law.”*

Matilda’s hands clenched at her sides. She leaned in, voice rough, unexpected—*“Fine. Then I don’t need you.”*

Jim’s eyes widened. She almost never spoke. The sound was jagged, unused, but damned if it didn’t cut. He grabbed her arm, tight enough to bruise. *“You’re not thinking straight.”*

She yanked free. *“I’m *done* waiting. Fifteen years in a coma, and no one knows who I am—not even me.”*

Jim’s expression cracked. He hesitated. It was enough.

*“If you can’t help me,”* she signed, slow, deliberate, *“then get out of my way.”*

He reached for her again. This time, Matilda didn’t stop herself. She shoved him back—hard. The station echoed with the thud of his boots skidding on linoleum.

*“Touch me again, and I swear to god, Jim, I’ll knock your teeth out.”*

Silence. His face was unreadable, but his hands finally stilled.

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned, shouldered past the gawking officers, and slammed the station door behind her.

---

The engine of her rusted pickup growled as she sped out of the station lot, tires kicking up gravel. Hawkins blurred past—the neon sign of Benny’s Burgers, the flickering marquee of the Palace Arcade—places that never felt like home, just shadows she passed through.

She drove aimlessly, windows down, warm wind tangling in her hair. The radio hummed static, forgotten. The road stretched ahead, but her mind kept circling back to Creel’s name, the weight of it like a stone in her gut.

Hours passed. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the asphalt. She didn’t realize how far she’d gone until the streets grew unfamiliar, the houses sparse. Then, like a whisper she wasn’t meant to hear, something caught her eye—a structure swallowed by overgrown vines, its roof sagging under time’s weight.

*The Creel House.*

Matilda slowed, pulling onto the cracked driveway. The woods around it had crept closer, roots buckling the pavement. The house loomed, its boarded windows like closed eyes, blind but knowing.

Her boots crunched on dead leaves as she stepped out. The air here was heavier, thick with the scent of damp wood and something older—rot, maybe, or memory. The front door hung slightly ajar, as if waiting.

Inside, dust swirled in slants of fading light. The foyer’s grandeur was still visible beneath the decay: peeling wallpaper, a chandelier missing half its crystals, a grand staircase spiraling into shadow. A family *lived* here once. A family that ended in blood.

She moved quietly, trailing fingers along the banister. The floor groaned underfoot, protesting her intrusion. Room by room, she searched—drawers stuck shut with time, moth-eaten curtains, a child’s faded drawing tucked behind a loose baseboard. Nothing useful.

Then, the attic.

The pull-down ladder creaked as she lowered it. Above, darkness yawned. Matilda hesitated only a second before climbing up.

The space was cramped, hot as a fever dream. Trunks lined the walls, cobwebbed and forgotten. But one stood open. Inside—a leather-bound journal, its pages brittle with age.

She lifted it carefully. The first entry was dated 1959.

Taking a seat on the floor, Matilda opened the journal, her fingers tracing the spine as if afraid it might crumble. A film photo slipped out—faded at the edges, but unmistakable. A younger version of herself, grinning, sandwiched between Henry and Alice Creel. They must’ve been eight years old, all mismatched smiles and scraped knees. Henry’s hand was on her shoulder, casual as if they’d always been friends. Alice, small but bright-eyed, clung to his other arm.

Matilda’s breath caught. She *remembered* that playground—the rusted swing set, the way Henry had paused mid-laugh when he first saw her, like he’d been waiting. They’d spent hours that day, whispering secrets, pretending the woods behind them were castles to conquer.

She flipped through the journal, her pulse quickening. Page after page, Henry’s careful handwriting described his move to Hawkins, the quiet horror of a new town. Then, her. *“Matilda Hamilton doesn’t talk much, but she listens better than anyone. Even showed me and Alice around Hawkins. Today, Alice laughed for the first time since we left Indianapolis.”*

The entries blurred—picnics by the quarry, Henry teaching her chess on the Creel porch, Alice braiding wildflowers into Matilda’s hair. Normal things. Happy things.

Then, the Grand Canyon trip.

Henry’s tone shifted. *“Something’s wrong with me. I hear voices. Matilda knows. She tried to talking to me—”* The next page was torn, jagged at the edges.

Matilda’s fingers trembled. She turned another page—and froze.

A memory surged forward, raw and sudden. Herself, older now—maybe twelve—standing in the woods behind the Creel house. Henry, pale and sweating, his hands clenched at his sides. *“You don’t understand,”* he’d hissed. She’d reached for him, “Tell me what’s happening!”*

Then—pain. A force slammed into her chest, throwing her back. Her head struck rock. The world spun, soundless, as Henry loomed over her, tears streaking his face. His mouth moved—*“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”* but her ears were ringing, wet. Blood.

The next memory was worse: white lab coats, gloved hands dragging her away. A man with a cold smile raised something metallic—a baton—and the last thing she saw was Henry’s scream before darkness swallowed her.

The journal slipped from her grip. Matilda pressed her palms to her temples, gasping. The attic walls seemed to pulse around her. She wasn’t just remembering. She was *there*—the smell of damp earth, the sting of blood in her mouth, Henry’s voice cracking like broken glass. The attic flickered between then and now, like a bad TV signal.

Matilda stumbled back, knocking over an old lamp. It shattered, loud even in her silent world. Her hands shook. She snatched the journal, stuffing it into her jacket on her way out.

---

Matilda slammed the truck door shut and stomped toward her cabin, the journal clutched tight under her arm. The woods were too quiet—no birds, no rustling leaves. Just her boots crunching over twigs like they’d done something wrong.

She kicked the front door open, flicked the lock hard behind her. The cabin smelled like pine and coffee grounds, safe and hers. For a second, she leaned against the door like it could hold the world back.

The journal hit the kitchen table with a thud. She glared at it like it might bite. Her hands were still shaking. Stupid. She grabbed a glass, filled it with water, drank too fast. The cold helped. A little.

Upstairs, she yanked the curtains shut. No nosy neighbors, no weird glares from the trees. Just dark. Better.

She flopped onto the couch, pressing her palms into her eyes until stars burst behind them. The journal was still there, waiting. Taunting.

*Fine.*

She grabbed it, flipped to the torn page again. Her fingers brushed the jagged edge. Henry’s messy writing, words scratched out. She could almost hear his voice in her head—*It wasn’t me. I didn’t mean to.* But hell if she knew what that meant.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. Matilda curled tighter into the couch, journal pressed to her chest.

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch15

It was still dark out but that didnt stop Matilda as she leaned against her truck, her fingers working methodically along the blade of her machete. The steel glinted as she drew it across the whetstone, the repetitive *shink-shink* cutting through the quiet of the woods. She tested the edge by slicing through a thick branch—clean, but not perfect. Another pass.

The front door to the byers swung open, making the hinges groan. Steve leaned out, his voice tight. “Okay, so the kids *somehow* got it in their heads that they’re charging into that field full of demodogs to blow up the tunnels. Something about ‘cutting off the Mind Flayer’s supply line’ or whatever.” He exhaled sharply. “Please tell me you think this is as stupid as I do.”

Matilda paused mid-stroke, glancing up. The lines of tension in Steve’s forehead told her he already knew the answer. She wiped sweat from her brow with her sleeve before signing, *Doesn’t matter. They’ll do it anyway.* She smirked, then added aloud, “Which means we get to be their backup. Again.”

Steve groaned, rubbing his temples. “Why do we keep ending up as the adult supervision?”

Matilda tilted her head, grinning. “Because we're their moms.”

“I am *not*—”

A sharp rustle in the bushes cut him off. Matilda’s grip on the machete tightened as she scanned the treeline. For a second, all was still. Then—the distant growl of an engine accelerating fast. Too fast for these backroads.

*Car coming,* she signed urgently, just as the roar of Billy’s Camaro tore through the quiet. Without hesitation, Matilda let out a piercing whistle—one sharp enough to make Steve jolt.

“What—?”

She jerked her chin toward the road, where Billy’s car screeched to a halt just outside the Byers’ house. Steve cursed under his breath, slamming the truck door behind him as the kids’ faces appeared in the window—wide-eyed and immediately ducking out of sight.

Billy slammed his car door shut, his boots kicking up dust as he swaggered toward them, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking between Steve and Matilda. “Couple of babysitters making house calls now?”

Matilda’s fingers flexed around her machete handle, tapping the flat of the blade against her palm—slow, deliberate. A quiet threat.

Steve crossed his arms. “What’s your deal, Hargrove?”

Billy exhaled smoke. “Looking for my brat of a stepsister. Short, redhead, bad attitude—you’d *definitely* remember her.” He smirked, tilting his head toward the Byers’ window. “Little rat’s been sneaking around where she shouldn’t.”

Matilda didn’t blink, keeping her voice low but sharp enough to carry. “Only rats I see are *much* bigger than your head.”

Billy’s smirk faded. He took a step closer to Steve, blowing smoke right in his face. “You sure you haven’t seen her, Harrington? Or are you too busy playing nanny?”

Inside, the curtain twitched again. Billy’s gaze snapped toward the movement. Matilda shifted, blocking his line of sight.

*Not happening,* her stance said.

Steve cracked his knuckles. “Get lost, Billy.”

The air between them crackled. Behind the glass, Max, Lucas, and Dustin held their breaths.

Billy’s punch came out of nowhere—Steve staggered back, hitting the dirt hard. Matilda moved before she even thought, stepping between Billy and the house.

"Not happening," she snapped, but Billy shoved her aside like she weighed nothing. Her head cracked against the porch railing, stars exploding behind her eyes.

And then—flashes. A huge house with a stained-glass rose on the front door. A boy—Henry Creel—and a blonde girl, Alice, shaking her hand. *"Hi, I'm Matilda Hamilton."*

"Dammit, *Billy!*" Steve’s voice yanked her back. Inside, the kids were yelling. Something crashed.

Steve barreled in, fists flying. Billy laughed, dodging, then swung hard. They slammed into a wall, trading blows while Dustin chanted, *"Yeah, Steve, clock him!"*

Billy pinned Steve down, punching again and again. Blood dripped from Steve’s nose.

Matilda’s vision cleared just in time to see Max snatch the syringe from the table. She lunged, jamming it into Billy’s neck.

He slumped, groggy, but still sneering.

Max grabbed Steve’s bat, slamming it hard to the floor near Billy’s crotch. "You leave me and my friends alone."

Billy’s smirk faded. "Alright, alright—*message received.*"

Max snatched his keys, signing fast to Matilda: *"I’m driving. You got Steve?"*

Matilda nodded, then dragged Steve to her truck.

---

Woods blurred past as Matilda sped after Max's taillights, Steve groaning in the passenger seat. His nose was swollen, blood smeared across his chin.

“What the *hell* are we doing?” Steve rasped, pressing his sleeve to his face. “We should’ve stopped them. This—this is insane.”

Matilda’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. Before she could respond, her notepad and pen *lifted* from the dashboard, hovering in the air between them. Steve’s eyes widened.

The pen scribbled: *Max is driving to the field. They’re burning the tunnels.*

Steve’s breath hitched. “You—you just let them *go?*”

Matilda’s hands slammed the wheel "If Max hadn’t drugged Billy," she snapped, voice raw and clear. "you’d be drinking through a damn straw right now. So shut the *fuck up and help me save their dumbasses before they get eaten alive."

Steve stared. Then, slowly, he wiped his mouth and sat up straighter.

“Alright,” he muttered. “But if we all die, I’m haunting you first.”

Matilda smirked and hit the gas.

The trees whipped past as Matilda’s truck barreled after Max’s Camaro, its taillights flickering between the pines like a distress signal. The road was rough, patches of gravel kicking up under the tires, but Matilda didn’t slow down. Next to her, Steve clutched the dashboard, his knuckles white. Blood from his nose had dried in smears across his jaw, and his left eye was already starting to swell.

“You realize,” Steve gritted out, “we’re following a *thirteen-year-old* who just stole a car and drugged her stepbrother?”

Matilda didn’t glance away from the road, her grip steady. *And?* she signed with one hand before grabbing the wheel again.

Steve groaned. “I hate my life.”

Ahead, Max swerved violently, clipping a rotting wooden sign—“*Private Property*”—before fishtailing into the field. The Camaro’s hood crumpled against a fence post, steam hissing from the engine. Matilda slammed the brakes, her truck skidding to a stop just inches from the wreck.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered as they vaulted out. The kids were already tumbling from Billy’s car, miraculously unharmed. Lucas was waving his arms like this was some grand adventure, Dustin was shouting something about “*structural integrity of vines*,” and Max—Max just looked pissed, kicking the Camaro’s bumper for good measure.

Steve stormed forward. “Okay, *no*. We are *not* doing this—”

Matilda cut him off, thrusting her lighter and machete into his hands. *Move your flat ass*, she signed, then added aloud, “We smoke a joint after if we live.”

Steve blinked. “Did you just—?”

“Less talking, more *burning shit*!” Dustin yelled, already hauling rope from Matilda’s truck bed.

Matilda slung her rifle over her shoulder, checking the bullets. The kids were a flurry of motion—Max tying knots with practiced ease, Lucas rigging the rope to the truck’s tow hitch, Dustin muttering about “*optimal combustion points*.”

Steve hesitated, staring at the gaping hole in the ground. “We’re really lowering ourselves into *demon hell* with *gasoline*?”

Matilda clapped him on the shoulder, her grin sharp. *Welcome to parenting.*

With a sigh, Steve pocketed the lighter, hefted the machete, and turned to the kids. “Alright, gremlins. Who’s going first?”

Dustin whooped, already clipping the rope to his belt. “Science waits for no man!”

Matilda watched as they descended one by one—Max’s red hair the last to vanish into the dark. She glanced at Steve, who was glaring at the hole like it owed him money.

“You good?” she signed.

Steve exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “If I die down there, tell Nancy I looked cool doing it.”

Matilda snorted, shoving a gas can into his arms. *Noted.*

The tunnel yawned beneath them, the air thick with something sour and metallic. Somewhere in the black, the kids’ voices echoed, distant but determined.

It took sometime of silnce and stillness until the rope twitched making her moved her rilfe to help get everyone out by hauling Max up first. The kid was covered in grime, her knuckles scraped raw, but grinning like she’d just won the lottery.

Mike and Lucas scrambled out next, panting, their faces lit up with wild adrenaline. They turned back toward the hole, yelling for Steve and Dustin.

The ground rumbled.

“Oh, crap—” Lucas stumbled as the edges of the tunnel started collapsing inward.

Matilda didn’t think—just dropped to her knees, arm elbow-deep in the dirt, fingers grabbing blindly. Steve’s hand clamped around hers, and she yanked, dragging him and a coughing Dustin free just as the hole sealed shut behind them with a *thud*.

Dust hung in the air. Then—light. Blinding, pulsing light.

Matilda threw an arm over her eyes as the headlights of the Camaro and her truck flared like twin suns. The beams cut through the field, impossibly bright, painting the trees in sharp relief.

“El’s doing it,” Mike whispered.

No one spoke. The light swelled, then snapped off, plunging them into sudden quiet.

Steve wiped dirt from his face. “Okay. That just happened.”

Max let out a shaky breath, then grinned. “We did it.”

Dustin high-fived Lucas hard enough to hurt. “Demodog barbecue, baby!”

Matilda smirked, signing to Steve, *Told you we’d live.*

He groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s that joint?”

Matilda flicked the joint from behind her radio at Steve’s chest as Max revved Billy’s Camaro—windows down, the boys crammed inside like sardines. Steve caught it with a grin, already digging for matches in her glovebox.

“You *hid* weed behind your radio?” He shook his head, lighting up. “Real classy.”

She shot him a look, snatching it back for a quick drag before passing it over. The smoke curled between them, warm and familiar, as they tailed Max’s wobbly driving.

Steve exhaled, sinking into his seat. “Kid’s gotta learn to parallel park.”

Matilda smirked, fingers tapping the wheel. *She’s 13 and just fought interdimensional monsters. Give her a break.*

At the Byers’, Billy was still out cold on the floor limbs sprawled like a starfish. Max moved tot he back seat as Matilda got in the house to drag Billy into the Camaro on the passenger seat. She drove them to the Hargroves house with Neil waiting in the front. Matilda got out handing him a written note. *Sorry. Your daughter was with me moving some stuff out in my cabin. Billy found us and help until he accidently sat on a broken tranquilizer gun that went off. He'll be fine in a few hours.*

Mr. Hargrove squinted at the note, then at Billy drooling against the car window. His mustache twitched. "Tranq gun, huh?"

Matilda shrugged, tapping her temple like *stupid accidents happen*.

He exhaled, cigarette bobbing between his lips. "Kid's a damn menace even unconscious." Grabbing Billy by the collar, he hauled him inside.

Max hovered, kicking pebbles. "He'll be pissed when he wakes up."

*Not your problem*, Matilda signed, nudging her toward the house.

Max hesitated. "Thanks. For the lie."

Matilda smirked. *House cleaner gig’s good for two things: keys under mats and bullshit alibis.*

Max snorted, then vanished inside. The door slammed—another Hargrove family chat, probably loud enough to rattle the windows.

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch14

The night air was thick with tension as Matilda listened to Jim’s grim update—demodogs had attacked the lab, and Will, still trapped in the grip of the thing inside him, had been forced to betray them. They’d sedated him, a temporary solution until they could rip the darkness out of him for good.

Matilda chewed on the inside of her cheek, fingers drumming absently against her rifle strap. The pieces were there—Joyce’s frantic descriptions of Will’s unnatural behavior, the way he recoiled from heat, just like Dart. The realization clicked. Heat. They both *hated* heat.

She tapped out a quick message in Morse code through her walkie, signaling she might have an idea, but right now, there were more immediate problems. Like the fact she had three kids in tow and a demodog to hunt.

The group trudged along the train tracks, footsteps crunching over gravel. Dustin and Lucas bickered, the argument flaring again now that Steve had exposed Dustin’s secret—*Dart*. The betrayal stung, clear in the way Dustin’s voice cracked. Matilda rolled her eyes, shifting her gaze to Steve, who stiffened, head tilting.

She didn’t need to hear to know something was off.

A sharp, short whistle from her lips snapped Max, Lucas, and Dustin to attention. Matilda moved past them, rifle gripped tight, the weight familiar in her hands. She stopped at the tree line, eyes narrowing. The Hawkins Lab loomed ahead, its usual hum of electricity eerily silent. *Lockdown.*

Then, headlights cut through the dark—Nancy’s car, Jonathan behind the wheel. Recognition flickered in Matilda’s chest. She lifted her hands, signing, *"For Will and Mike?"*

Nancy nodded. “Yeah. What the hell’s happening?”

*"We’re in deep shit,"* Matilda signed back, already turning toward the lab again. The power flickered back on, casting an uneven glow. She snatched her walkie, fingers flying over the buttons. **Jim? Status?** Static hissed back. Nothing.

Teeth gritted, she turned back to the fence. One deep breath. Then she *moved.* Her boots hit the chain-links, but she barely felt the climb. Telekinesis buzzed under her skin, a silent push against gravity—her body lifted, weightless for half a second before she landed clean on the other side. She didn’t wait to see if the others followed.

The lab’s doors yawned open, the halls inside flickering between light and shadow. Inside, the air stank of scorched wiring and something fouler. She could hear them now—the growls, the skittering of claws on tile.

Then she saw them.

Joyce knelt by Will’s limp form, Jim hauling him over his shoulders. Hopper’s face was streaked with sweat, eyes wild. Behind them, Bob Newby skidded to a stop, relief spreading across his face as Joyce smiled—

A snarl tore through the corridor.

A demodog lunged from the shadows, jaws wide. Matilda’s rifle was up before she consciously aimed. *Bang.* The first shot cracked the air, missing—the beast twisted, charging straight for Bob.

*Bang. Bang.* Two shots, point-blank. The demodog reeled, but another slammed into Bob from the side. Claws raked deep. Blood sprayed.

*"NO!"* Matilda’s silent scream burned her throat as she fired again, Jim roaring beside her, bullets spraying. The demodogs kept coming—too many, too fast. One swiped at Jim, forcing him back, but Matilda surged forward, telekinesis flaring. An unseen force *shoved* the creatures back, buying seconds—just enough for Jim to drag Joyce toward the exit.

She didn’t look back at Bob’s body.

They ran, boots pounding, the kids catching up as they all piled into Jim’s waiting van. The engine snarled to life. Headlights cut through the night, the lab shrinking in the rearview as they tore toward the Byers’ house.

---

Matilda sat cross-legged on Jonathan’s bed, his faded band posters staring down at her. She closed her eyes, focusing on that quiet hum inside her—the one that let her slip between worlds like stepping through a door.

Darkness swallowed her. Not scary, just… empty. Like floating in ink.

Then—*there*. El stood in front of her, hair slicked back like some kinda rebel. Next to her was another girl, all punk vibes with dark hair dipped in color and a smirk that said she didn’t take crap from anyone.

Matilda signed fast, hands flying. *"We need you. Will’s trapped. The others—they’re barely holding it together."*

El tilted her head. "I know.” Her voice was steady, stronger than before. “This is Eight. My sister.”

Eight just looked at Matilda before she vanished.

Matilda blinked. *Sister?* But no time for that now. *"You coming?"*

El’s jaw set. “Yeah. We’re finishing this.”

A sharp tug pulled at Matilda’s gut—the waking world yanking her back. She barely caught Eight’s grin before everything dissolved.

She gasped, jolting upright on Jonathan’s bed. The room smelled like old records and too much hairspray. Downstairs, the others were still arguing.

No one knew. Not yet.

But help was coming.

---

The night clung to Hawkins like a second skin, humid and restless. Matilda leaned against the peeling paint of the Byers’ porch, her fingers brushing the cool metal of her rifle. Inside, muffled voices rose and fell—Mike’s urgency, Joyce’s quiet pleading, Will’s hollow responses.

Nancy’s boots scuffed against the wooden steps as she approached, her arms folded tight around herself. “You okay?” she asked, voice low.

Matilda nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t need to hear the question to know what Nancy meant. The worry was written all over her face, the same way it had been when Matilda used to babysit her—back when monsters were just stories and nightmares could be chased away with a nightlight.

*"They’re talking to Will?"* Matilda signed.

"Yeah," Nancy said, following her gaze to the drawn curtains. “Trying to reach him through memories. Jim thinks it’s the only way to get answers.”

Matilda’s fingers twitched. *Answers.* That’s all any of them wanted—answers about the Mind Flayer, about why it had its claws in Will, about why Bob had to die. Her stomach twisted. Heat. That was the key. She tapped Nancy’s arm and signed, *"Tell them—use heat. It’s Dart’s weakness. The Mind Flayer’s too."*

Nancy’s brow furrowed. “You’re sure?”

*"Positive."*

Inside, Joyce’s voice wavered. "We try that after," she said, stepping onto the porch, her hands shaking as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “First, we need to know what *Will* knows. How to stop this.”

Matilda exhaled through her nose. Fair enough. She tightened her grip on the rifle and jerked her chin toward the woods. *"I’ll keep watch."*

Nancy hesitated, then nodded. “Steve and the kids are inside. Holler if you see anything.”

Matilda smirked. *Holler.* Right.

The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with the cicadas and the weight of the rifle against her shoulder. The trees rustled, whispering secrets. She scanned the treeline, every shadow a potential threat. The Mind Flayer wasn’t done. It had called the demodogs once—it could do it again.

A twig snapped.

Matilda’s spine went rigid, rifle swinging up in one fluid motion. Her finger hovered over the trigger, breath steady. Nothing moved.

Then—a flicker.

Not a demodog. A shape, hazy and humanoid, shifting between the trees like smoke. The air around it shimmered, warped, as if reality itself was bending. Matilda’s pulse spiked. *Not real. Can’t be.* But her hands didn’t shake.

The figure tilted its head. Then vanished.

A dreamwalker? Something else?

She didn’t have time to wonder. Behind her, the door creaked open, and Max’s voice cut through the quiet. “Yo, you see anything out here or what?”

Matilda lowered the rifle slowly, signing, *"Maybe."*

---

The flickering lights behind Matilda cast unstable shadows over the porch, painting the woods in erratic pulses of amber and black. Two hours had passed since she’d last seen movement—since that hazy figure in the trees had vanished like smoke. Her fingers flexed around the rifle, her breathing steady.

Then—*there.*

A blur darted between the pines, too fast to be human. Matilda’s grip tightened, her boots crunching softly on dry leaves as she crept forward. The trees loomed, their branches clawing at the sky. She scanned the darkness, her light green eyes sharp. Another flicker of movement. Closer this time.

Her pulse spiked.

Something *grabbed* her ankle—cold and sinewy—yanking her backward. Matilda barely caught herself before her knees hit dirt, a choked gasp tearing from her throat. Instinct kicked in. She twisted, rifle swinging toward the shadow dragging her into the underbrush.

A demodog.

Its maw split open, rows of teeth glistening under the fractured moonlight. Matilda’s finger found the trigger—

*CRACK.*

The gunshot never came. Instead, the demodog’s neck *snapped* mid-lunge, its body suddenly weightless as an invisible force *hurled* it through the Byers’ living room window. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The house erupted in shouts.

Matilda scrambled to her feet, heart hammering, her rifle still raised.

Then she saw El walking calmly towards the house unlocking the door and opened it as she walked in.

El pushed the door open like she owned the place—calm, quiet, like she hadn’t been missing for a year. Everyone froze for half a second before the room exploded. Mike’s face went through five emotions at once, Dustin let out a screech, and Lucas just gaped like a fish.

Matilda lowered her rifle, rolling her shoulder. She caught the way Jim stiffened, bracing for impact.

Mike rounded on him instantly. “You *knew*?” His voice cracked. “This whole time?!”

Jim just sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Kid, it wasn’t—”

“*Bullshit!*”

El ignored the drama, scanning the mess of papers and scribbled notes on the table. She picked up Will’s drawing—that spiky, inky monster. Joyce hovered, wringing her hands. “Can you close it? The gate?”

A nod. Simple. Certain.

Jim jerked his chin toward the door. “Then let’s move.”

Matilda watched as Jonathan and Joyce bundled Will toward Jim’s cabin, her own heat plan in motion. Nancy shot her a look—*keep an eye on them*—before following.

The kids stayed behind, Steve awkwardly herding them away from the broken window. Max folded her arms, scowling. “So what now? We just wait?”

Dustin plopped onto the couch, exhausted. “Yep. Welcome to the party.”

Outside, the woods were too quiet. Matilda leaned against the wall, signing to no one in particular: *"This isn’t over yet."*

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch13

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Matilda sat at her kitchen table, her hands moving deftly over the telegraph key. She sent a sharp series of Morse code clicks to Dustin, the signal cutting through the early quiet like an insistent whisper. *Meet at the junkyard. Bring Steve.* She trusted he'd understand—he always did.

An hour later, she arrived at the junkyard, the air already thick with the scent of rust and gasoline. Dustin and Steve were already there, crouched by an open bag of raw meat. Steve wrinkled his nose as he tossed another chunk onto the ground, muttering under his breath, "This better work."

Matilda smirked, signing to Dustin, *You sure Dart’s still into this stuff?*

Dustin nodded eagerly, translating for Steve. "Until he grows teeth like Demogorgon teeth, yeah."

Matilda exhaled, scanning the perimeter. The junkyard felt too exposed—anyone from Hawkins Lab could be watching. She rolled up her sleeves and focused, pressing her fingers to her temples. Heavy metal scraps screeched as they shifted, twisting into position to form a crude but functional barrier. The effort sent a dull throb through her skull, though. After a few minutes, her vision blurred at the edges. Too much, too fast.

She stumbled toward the nearest shelter—an old school bus with its seats gutted out—and slumped onto the cracked vinyl, rubbing her temples. The quiet hum of the rusted metal around her lulled her into a shallow doze.

A boot nudged her foot.

"Seriously?" Steve’s voice was equal parts exasperated and amused. "We're out here building monster traps, and you're napping?"

Matilda cracked one eye open, giving him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. She signed one-handed, *Exhausted. Not lazy.*

Steve just raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, no need to throw a wrench at me with your mind."

Dustin’s voice cut in from outside the bus. "Guys? You might wanna see this."

Matilda pushed herself up, following Steve out where Dustin, Lucas, and Max were arranging the last of the bait. Max wiped her hands on her jeans, nodding at Matilda. “We cool?”

Matilda returned the nod, watching as the late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the junkyard. They didn’t have much time before dark. And when night fell, things always got worse.

Night had fallen by the time Matilda slipped out of the truck, her breath misting in the unseasonably cold air. She adjusted the strap of her rifle over her shoulder, her fingers brushing the handle of the machete at her hip. Behind her, Steve gripped his nail-studded bat tightly, his knuckles white. The usual confident swagger in his step was gone—tonight, he looked tense, alert.

A thick fog swirled around them, unnatural for Hawkins at this time of year. It clung to the ground, obscuring their feet, blotting out the stars overhead. Matilda’s jaw tightened. Fog like this meant something was off—something *unnatural.*

Inside the rusted school bus, Max, Dustin, and Lucas were crouched low, peering through broken windows. Max gave Matilda a quick thumbs-up before climbing onto the roof with Lucas, who already had his binoculars pressed to his eyes, scanning for movement. Dustin stayed below, a makeshift radio receiver in his hands, frowning at the static cutting in and out.

Matilda’s fingers moved in sharp, quick signs to Steve. *Stay sharp. They’re close.*

Steve nodded grimly.

Then—movement. A low, guttural growl shuddered through the air, and Dart’s lanky form emerged from the mist, his unnaturally long limbs twitching. His body had transformed since the last time they’d seen him—his skin was tougher, darker, and elongated spines ran down his back like a grotesque parody of a predator. His head tilted, sniffing at the chunks of meat Dustin had left earlier, but he didn’t touch them.

Lucas’s whisper cut through the silence. “Oh crap.”

Matilda sucked in a breath. Behind Dart, another shadow shifted—then another. Two more Demogorgons, their claws clicking against the gravel as they circled, their milky white eyes locking onto Steve and Matilda.

Steve muttered under his breath. “We are *way* outnumbered.”

Matilda didn’t hesitate. She raised her rifle and fired. The sharp crack echoed through the junkyard, and the Demogorgon screeched, lurching backward. Steve lunged forward, swinging his bat with brutal efficiency, the nails tearing into sinewy flesh.

Chaos erupted.

Matilda reloaded swiftly, firing again while reaching out with her mind, her telekinesis wrenching old car parts from the ground and hurling them into the creatures’ paths. The effort sent pins and needles crawling up her arms, but she gritted her teeth and pushed harder. A rusted bumper flew like a battering ram, smashing into one of the Demogorgons with enough force to send it sprawling.

Dustin’s voice crackled over the radio. “More incoming—left side!”

Matilda pivoted, spotting another pair of shadows slinking toward them through the fog. She fired again, but the recoil made her stumble. Steve was at her side in an instant, his bat swinging in wide arcs, keeping the creatures at bay.

Just as they braced for another onslaught—something changed.

All three Demogorgons froze, their heads snapping toward the same exact spot in the distance, as if hearing a sound beyond human ears. Then, in eerie unison, they turned and vanished into the fog, disappeared as suddenly as they’d come.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Steve’s chest heaved as he turned to Matilda, breathless. “What the hell *was* that?”

Matilda didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed where the Demogorgons had looked—deep into the woods, where the tree line disappeared into black.

Something had called them.

And whatever it was, it wasn’t done with Hawkins yet.

Matilda bolted for her truck, fingers flying over the telegraph key in a staccato burst. The reply came fast—Jim’s familiar rhythm, sharp and urgent. *Will’s the key. Whatever’s inside him is pissed. Called the Demo-dogs off the lab goons.*

She sprinted back to the group, signing quick, choppy words. *Not just monsters—Will’s the puppetmaster.*

Steve blinked. "Wait, *Will?*"

Dustin was already shaking his head. "No way. There’s no way he’d—"

Matilda cut him off with a sharp sign. *Not Will. Something inside him.* Her fingers trembled slightly. *Pulling strings. Like I saw in the dream.*

Steve ran a hand through his hair. "So what, we’ve gotta fight our own friend now?"

Lucas cursed under his breath, binoculars still glued to the tree line. "If the Mind Flayer’s got him, we don’t have a choice."

Max kicked a can. "Great. Just what we needed—superpowers vs. possessed babysitting gig."

Matilda exhaled through her nose, signing tersely. *Jim’s at the lab. We just need to find a way to free Will from this thing.*

Steve groaned. "Of course. Because *that* sounds easy."

Matilda threw open the truck door, jerking her head toward Max. *Get in. Now.*

Max hesitated, glancing back at the others. "But—"

Matilda didn’t wait. She grabbed Max’s wrist, fingers tapping quick against her palm. *I'm taking you home and finish this in the morning.*

Max scowled but climbed in. As the truck rumbled down the dirt road, she kicked at the dashboard. "This is stupid. We should be *helping* them."

Matilda shot her a look. *Safer this way if we rest.* Her hands moved sharp, like she was cutting the air between them. *No time for dead kids.*

Max slumped in her seat, arms crossed. "Fine. But if my mom asks, you *better* back me up."

Matilda smirked, one hand on the wheel. *Promise. Just tell her we were—*

"Building a bonfire and some stuff," Max deadpanned. "Real convincing."

Matilda laughed, the sound more breath than noise. *Works.*

She pulled up to Max’s house, the porch light glowing yellow. Max hesitated before hopping out, then turned back. "You’re not just ditching them, right?"

Matilda’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. *Going back. Ending this.*

Max nodded. "Good. Kick its ass."

The truck peeled out before Max even reached the door. Matilda’s mind raced—Jim’s message, Will, the demo-dogs. Whatever was calling the shots, she *wasn’t* letting it win. 

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch12

Jim’s police cruiser rolled up the dirt path to Matilda’s cabin, tires crunching over fallen pine needles. Inside, she was already waiting, hands fidgeting in her lap as she sat on the porch steps. The moment he stepped out, she stood, signing rapidly—*I saw something. Something inside Will.*

Jim frowned, holding up a hand to slow her down. “Okay, okay, take a breath. What happened?”

Matilda exhaled, forcing herself to still before signing again. *When I touched him… I blacked out. I was there—the Upside Down. And something… something got inside him.* Her fingers trembled slightly as she described the monstrous cloud, how it slithered into Will like smoke filling a room. She remembered the cold grip of unseen hands pulling her back, Max’s sharp slap snapping her back into reality.

Jim’s jaw tightened, eyes darkening. He rubbed a hand over his beard. “Joyce said Will’s been… off. Not himself. He’s been drawing these…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, handing it to her.

Matilda unfolded it. The page was covered in frantic, overlapping sketches—twisting vines, jagged shapes that looked almost alive. One corner of the drawing was smudged, as if Will had pressed his fingers there for too long. The lines were wild, desperate, nothing like the careful kid she remembered babysitting years ago.

*“It’s connected,”* she signed, glancing toward the woods beyond her cabin. The edges of the trees looked brittle, leaves curling in on themselves as if drained of life. *Something’s spreading. Through him. Through everything.*

Jim followed her gaze, expression grim. “The crops near town are dying. Same damn thing—plants withering overnight. No reason.” He hesitated, then met her eyes. “You think it’s him?”

Matilda pressed her lips together. *Not him. Something using him.*

Then it clicked. The kids—*Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max*—they’d been looking for a *Pollywog creature.* while Will was having his episode before she blacked out.

Her eyes narrowed. *Why were they messing with things from the Upside Down?*

*You handle the fields*, she signed sharply to Jim, already nudging him toward his car. *I’ll deal with the kids before they get themselves killed. Or make me kill them.*

Jim huffed but didn’t argue—he knew that look. The one that meant she was done waiting for answers.

---

The neon sign of the Gas ‘n’ Sip flickered as Matilda pulled in to fill her tank of gas, gravel crunching under her tires. She’d barely stepped out when Lucas bolted toward her, eyes wide. “Matilda! We need—”

She cut him off, signing, *If this is about a Demogorgon—*

“No! It’s—it’s worse. You gotta be here when i tell max everything about last year.”

*Fine. But after, I’m hunting Dustin.*

She followed Lucas inside. The arcade next door thumped with muffled game sounds, but the gas station was quiet except for the hum of coolers. The manager—some guy with a long short hair and a bag of chips—looked up as they entered.

Lucas leaned over the counter. “Hey, can we use your office? Just need to talk to MadMax real quick when she gets here. i just need her game on hold.”

The manager smirked. “And what do I get?”

Before Lucas could answer, Matilda dropped her hands onto the counter and signed, *I’ll show you my boobs.*

The guy choked, his chip bag nearly slipping from his grip. “Deal,” he croaked.

Lucas gaped. “Matilda—”

She shooed him toward the office. *Go. Rated PG-13 version coming.*

The second the office door clicked shut behind Lucas, Matilda yanked her shirt up just enough to flash her white lace bra before slamming it back down. The manager’s face went beet red.

“That’s it?” he wheezed.

Matilda kicked the office door shut with her boot, then turned to Lucas through the glass, hands moving sharp and urgent. *Listen close. Because I’m only saying this once.*

She told him everything—the black void of the Upside Down, the thing coiled inside Will like a parasite, the force that had *pulled* her back before she could reach him.

Lucas paled but didn’t interrupt. Not even when the bell above the door jingled, and Max stormed in, her skateboard tucked under one arm.

“What the hell?” Max’s voice sliced through the stale air as she zeroed in on the office. “Lucas? Why’s *she* here?”

Still signing, Matilda didn’t break her rhythm. *Tell her now. Or I will.*

Lucas sucked in a breath, then turned to Max. “We—we need to talk. About Will. About… everything.”

Max’s scowl deepened. “What *everything*?”

And so Lucas began—halting at first, then faster, like the words were bursting out of him: Will vanishing into thin air last year. Eleven, the girl with powers, locked in Hawkins Lab. Demo gorgons. The real monsters lurking under their town.

Max crossed her arms, lips pressed into a thin line. “This some kinda joke?”

Lucas shook his head, voice cracking. “I swear, it’s—”

Max stood abruptly, shoving her chair back. “I’m out.” She reached for the door handle—

The door *slammed* shut on its own, rattling the frame.

Max whirled. Matilda hadn’t moved but the smile on face said everything.

Lucas, voice cracking: “*Now* do you believe us?”

Max’s jaw worked. “Trick door.”

Matilda rolled her eyes. *Fine. Be stubborn.* She slung her bag over her shoulder. *I’ll be in touch.*

She shoved past them, boots clunking against the tile. Outside, the evening air was thick with the scent of gasoline and fried food from the arcade’s snack counter. As she twisted the pump’s nozzle into her truck’s tank, her gaze snagged on a familiar car creeping down the road—Steve Harrington’s BMW, suspiciously slow.

And in the passenger seat: Dustin Henderson, flailing like an overexcited golden retriever.

Matilda honked twice. Hard.

Steve’s head whipped around. He pulled over with a screech, leaning out the window. “Jesus, *what?*”

Matilda strode over, signing sharply. *Is the Demogorgon dead?*

Dustin scrambled across Steve’s lap, nearly kneeing him in the groin. “Not yet! We’re working on—”

She didn’t let him finish. *Will’s possessed. I saw it in the Upside Down when I touched him. You four are playing with fire.* A pause. *Jim’s checking the fields—plants are rotting like corpses.*

Steve’s face went slack. “What the *hell* are you people into?”

Dustin, paling: “Ohhhh, *crap.*"

“If I end up dead because of this, I’m haunting *all* of you.”

Matilda didn’t hesitate. She jerked her thumb toward her truck. *Follow me.*

---

Dustin’s house was quiet when they arrived, the backyard half-shadowed as the sun dipped below the trees. The bomb shelter’s hatch was chained shut, padlocked tight.

Dustin jabbed a finger at it. “It’s in there.”

Matilda crouched beside the hatch. She pressed her palm flat against the rusted metal, eyes narrowing. The lock *clicked*—then the chains slithered free like snakes shedding skin.

Steve’s breath hitched. “*What the hell?*”

Ignoring him, Matilda yanked the hatch open and descended the stairs, Steve close behind. The shelter stank of damp earth and something sour, like spoiled meat. A pile of shed skin—pale, rubbery—lay in the corner. The dirt floor was gouged with fresh claw marks, leading to a tunnel barely wider than a drainpipe.

Steve aimed his bat at the hole. “Where’s—”

*Gone,* Matilda signed, barely keeping her hands steady. She kicked the shed skin, frustration boiling. *We’re too late.*

Dustin’s voice came from above, wobbling. “It’s okay! We’ll find it—”

*No. You won’t.* Matilda stormed back up the stairs brushing dirt off her jeans. *You’re benched if we fucking live.*

Steve crossed his arms once he followed her out. “And what’re *you* gonna do?”

*Sleep and continue hunting that thing.*

---

Matilda barely remembered driving home. The cabin welcomed her with its familiar creaks and drafts, the woodstove still warm from this morning. She collapsed onto her bed, boots still on, and closed her eyes.

Sleep came in a rush—like falling.

When she opened her eyes again, she stood in a cavernous arcade, its neon lights flickering. Max was there, slamming quarters into Dragon’s Lair, her jaw set.

Matilda walked up behind her.

*Look at me,* she signed—but here, in dreams, Max could hear her.

Max flinched back, bumping into the arcade cabinet. “What the hell? This isn’t real—”

Matilda grabbed her wrist. *It’s real enough.*

The arcade melted around them—walls peeling away like wet paper, neon lights twisting into the dark canopy of Hawkins’ woods. Max gasped as memories *flooded* in: El lurking in Mike’s basement, blood dripping from her nose. The demogorgon’s snarling face splitting open like a nightmare. Then Will, limp on the ground as that black smoke slithered into him while Matilda watched, helpless.

Max jerked free, breathing hard. “This—this is some freaky dream shit—”

Matilda snapped her fingers to make them appear in the the woods near Max's home. *Its my power besides telekinesis. I can enter anyone's dreams and change them into nightmares if i wanted to even use them as portals. Still think we’re joking?*

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch11

The argument with Jim had left Matilda’s hands still trembling long after she’d slammed her cabin door behind him. She could still feel the ghost of his grip on her wrist, his voice sharp in her memory: *"They’ll pull you right into that lab the second they realize what you are."* Like she hadn’t spent years scraping herself back together after waking up in that sterile hospital room with no past. Like she couldn’t handle her own damn life.

The auto shop’s flickering fluorescents buzzed like angry hornets overhead as she stepped inside, the biting scent of gasoline and rusted metal clawing at her lungs. Her truck sat at the back, hood gaping like a wounded animal. Daryll’s Garage had always been a gamble—cheap labor, cheap ethics—but she hadn’t had options when her engine died two miles outside town.

Then she saw them.

Daryll’s wiry sidekick hunched over her dashboard, fiddling with a tangle of wires like he was planting a bomb. Behind him, Daryll chuckled, nudging the guy’s shoulder like they’d just cracked the world’s dumbest joke. Neither noticed her yet.

Billy Hargrove did.

He leaned against a shelf of rusted tools, thumbing absently through a crate of spark plugs. His eyes flicked to her, lingered just long enough to register her tension, then slid away—bored or calculating, she couldn’t tell. Either way, he wasn’t stepping in. Fine. She didn’t need saving.

Matilda snatched the heaviest pair of pliers off the nearest bench, the cold steel biting into her palm. She tucked it behind her back just as Daryll and his crony swaggered over.

"Hey, sweetheart." Daryll wiped oil-stained hands on a rag that looked like it hadn’t been clean since the Nixon administration. "Bad news. That repair job’s gonna cost ya extra. *Way* extra." His grin said he knew she’d caught them red-handed.

Matilda exhaled sharply through her nose. Her hands moved fast: *I know what’s wrong. It’s the fuel pump.*

"Aw, don’t you worry your pretty little head—" the sidekick started, waving her off like she’d signed gibberish.

The *crunch* of the pliers clamping down on his wrist was louder than a gunshot. The man buckled, a strangled scream tearing from his throat as Matilda held firm. The shop went dead silent. Even Billy straightened, a slow, razor-edged smile curling his lips.

Matilda stepped nose-to-nose with Daryll. Her free hand sliced through the air, sharp enough to draw blood: *Try. That. Again.*

The clerk at the counter stammered the translation aloud, voice cracking. Daryll’s face drained of color. He fumbled for her keys, tossing them like a hot coal into her palm before dragging his whimpering buddy toward the office.

Billy pushed off the shelf, whistling low. “Damn, Hamilton. Didn’t know you packed that kind of fire.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes tracked her like she might explode again.

Matilda didn’t smile. Just flipped the pliers in her grip and tossed them back onto the bench with a *clang*. Her truck roared to life—no fake repairs, no theatrics—just the way it should’ve been from the start.

She peeled out of the lot, adrenaline still humming under her skin. The road stretched ahead, pine trees blurring at the edges—until movement in the field ahead snagged her attention.

*Will.*

He stood frozen in the tall grass, spine rigid, staring at nothing. Matilda stomped the brakes so hard her seatbelt locked. Before the truck had even fully stopped, she was out, vaulting the fence with a surge of telekinesis that sent her skidding onto the dirt beside Lucas, who’d just burst from the treeline.

Will’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. His mouth moved soundlessly, fingers twitching like he was clawing at invisible threads.

Matilda grabbed his face, signing *Lucas—get help NOW* before smacking Will’s cheek lightly. “Will? *Will!*”

Her own body locked up the second her palm connected.

A rush of darkness swallowed her whole—cold, wet, the air thick with rot. The Upside Down. Will stood yards away, writhing as a black, pulsing cloud coiled around him, tendrils creeping toward a monstrous shadow—something huge, spider-legged, lurking in the gloom.

Matilda lunged for him, but an unseen force wrenched her back. She gritted her teeth, throwing her telekinesis against it—*let me GO*—but the hold only tightened. Familiar. Like fingers she’d felt before, in a hospital room she couldn’t remember—

A searing pain exploded behind her eyes.

She gasped awake on the ground, grass prickling her neck. Faces swam above her—Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Max hovering closest, her palm stinging from where she’d just smacked Matilda’s cheek.

“You were seizing,” Max spat, relief warring with panic. “Like, full-on *Exorcist* shit.”

Matilda shoved herself upright, her head still spinning. The boys were staring at her like she’d grown an extra head.

Mike crouched in front of her, eyes wide. "What happened?"

"Something bad," she signed, grimacing as her fingers fumbled. The words felt too small for the headache still pounding behind her eyes.

Max crossed her arms. "Bad how? Like, 'monsters in the walls' bad, or—"

Mike cut her off. "It’s nothing." He shot the others a sharp look before turning on his heel and stalking off.

Lucas and Dustin exchanged glances. Matilda didn’t miss the way their shoulders tensed.

She dusted the dirt off her jeans and fixed them with a look. "What were you idiots doing before Will freaked out?"

Lucas kicked at the ground. "Dustin found this... thing. Sorta like a pollywog, but—"

"A *pollywog?*" Matilda’s hands snapped sharp through the air. "*From where?*"

The silence was louder than any answer.

She glared at Max. "And you?"

Max bristled. "They barely tell me *anything* until someone nearly dies." She shot a pointed look at Lucas and Dustin, who suddenly found the ground fascinating.

Matilda raked a hand through her hair, exhaustion creeping in. She glanced at Lucas, jerking her chin toward Max. "Should I tell her? Or you wanna?"

Lucas shook his head quick. "I got it." He hesitated, scuffing his shoe in the dirt. "But—what *did* you see with Will?"

Her fingers moved slow, like they weighed a ton. "Something... *inside* him. Like ink in water. I tried to pull it out, but—" She mimed claws yanking her backward, mouth twisting.

Max frowned. "Pull *what* out—?"

"Later," Lucas cut in, shooting Matilda a look.

She didn’t argue. Just wiped her palms on her jeans like she could scrub off the memory. "I’m done. Going home before my head splits open."

Dustin opened his mouth—probably to protest—but Max elbowed him. "Let her go, dingus. She looks like roadkill."

###

The drive back was a blur. By the time Matilda staggered through her cabin door, the headache had dulled to a low throb, but the chill in her bones wouldn’t leave. She dropped onto the edge of her bed, staring at the walkie Jim had given her—black and sturdy, with a scratched Morse code guide taped to the side.

She traced the outline of it with her thumb. Still pissed at him? Yeah. But he wasn’t wrong. The crops rotting all over Hawkins, Will’s blackouts, that *thing* she’d seen in the Upside Down—none of it was coincidence.

With a grunt, she flicked the walkie on and jabbed the transmit button in a sharp rhythm:

*— .... . -.-- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / - .... . .-. . ..--..* (They here?)

Silence. Then, a hesitant crackle.

*.—. .-. --- -... .- -... .-.. -.--* (Probably.)

Matilda’s chest tightened. She tapped again.

*.. / ... .- .-- / .. -* (I saw it.)

Jim’s reply took longer this time.

*... - .- -.-- / .-- .... . .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. .* (Stay where you are.)

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.

Ch10

A year had passed since Will Byers returned and life in Hawkins settled—at least on the surface. To the rest of the town, it was just another chapter that had faded into gossip. But Matilda Hamilton knew better. The quiet always felt a little too deliberate.

The schools hadn’t taken her back after everything—something about “liabilities,” though she suspected it had less to do with her deafness and more with the whispers about her past. So she’d taken up work as a housekeeper, cleaning homes for a handful of wary but grateful Hawkins residents. The work was easy, if dull, and paid just enough to keep the cabin standing.

The woods had always been her refuge, but now she had neighbors—new ones, at least. A little over half an hour’s walk from her property stood the modest homes of the Mayfields and the Hargroves. She’d first met Max and her mother while splitting firewood near their backyard, the rhythmic *thunk* of the axe drawing their attention. Susan Mayfield had been polite but hurried, casting glances over her shoulder like she expected trouble to appear any second. Max, though—there was something sharp in her gaze, a stubborn set to her jaw that Matilda recognized.

They didn’t talk much, not when Neil or Billy were around. Matilda knew better than to push, but she had slipped Max a crudely drawn map of the land between their houses, with a single note in careful print:

*If you need an escape, follow this.*

Today, though, Matilda’s focus was on her truck—an obstinate old thing that refused to stay running. The battery kept dying, and now the engine made a worrying *click-click-click* every time she turned the key. She’d limped it into Benny’s Auto, the only shop in town that didn’t overcharge just because she couldn’t hear their excuses.

The mechanic, Darryl, wiped his grease-streaked hands on a rag as he straightened up from under the hood. He was bull-necked and perpetually annoyed, but at least he knew his way around an engine.

“You let the oil go too long again,”* he said, slow and exaggerated—then hesitated when she raised an eyebrow.

Matilda sighed, fingers moving in sharp ASL. **“I read lips, Darryl. You don’t have to perform.”**

His face flushed, but he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Battery’s shot, cables are corroded, and something’s chewing through your wires. You got rats?”

She shrugged. **“Or something.”**

Darryl grunted, scratching at his stubble. “Gonna cost ya. Unless—” His gaze flicked over her, testing.

Matilda gave him *that* look—the one that made even Darryl hesitate. Before he could finish whatever dumb thing he was about to say, she grabbed a wrench off the counter and slammed it against the truck’s fender. The *clang* echoed through the shop loud enough that he flinched.

**“Yeah. Thought so.”** She tossed the wrench back into his toolbox.

Darryl scowled but shut up. “Fine. Just give me an hour. I’ll see what I can salvage.”

Whatever. She had things to do anyway.

The box for Dustin’s science teacher was waiting on her passenger seat, wrapped in brown paper. Some fancy radio he’d special-ordered. Middle School wasn’t far, so she walked, enjoying the crunch of leaves under her boots.

The classroom window was cracked open—probably because Mr. Clarke believed in “fresh air learning” or whatever. Inside, she could see Max slouched in her seat, Lucas doodling in his notebook, and Dustin waving his hands like he was explaining something *very* important.

Matilda knocked twice on the glass. Four heads snapped toward her.

**“Delivery,”** she signed, then shoved the box onto the counter before any of them could react. Dustin’s eyes lit up. Max shot her a sideways smirk.

Matilda didn’t stick around for questions. She was gone before the teacher even noticed the window had been open.

She was halfway down the sidewalk when the familiar grumble of an engine pulled alongside her. Jim Hopper’s cruiser rolled to a stop, window already down. His beard was more salt than pepper these days, but the weariness in his eyes was the same.

**“Need a lift?”** he asked, voice raised slightly.

Matilda smirked. **“Truck’s being shitty again,”** she signed before sliding into the passenger seat.

Hopper drummed his fingers on the wheel. **“You here for Will?”** she asked.

**“Not yet,”** he said, glancing toward the school. **“Session’s later. Want a ride home?”**

She nodded, leaning her head against the window as Hawkins blurred past. The trees, the weathered houses, the flicker of neon from Melvald’s—just another ordinary day in a town that was anything but.

Hopper dropped her off with a gruff, **“See you later,”** before driving away.

Inside, the cabin was quiet. Dust floated in the late afternoon light, undisturbed. Matilda shed her jacket, toeing off her boots before heading to the bathroom. The pipes groaned as she turned the faucet, hot water filling the tub. She sunk in with a sigh, letting the steam soften her thoughts.

Fatigue pulled at her. The water cooled, but she barely noticed, eyelids growing heavy—until the world tilted.

Suddenly, she wasn’t in the cabin anymore.

*Green grass stretched under her bare feet. A playground, rusted but familiar. The rocket structure loomed ahead, paint peeling. Beyond it, woods—denser than Hawkins’, older. The air hummed, thick with something she couldn’t name.*

Her pulse quickened. This place—she *knew* it. The way you know a dream you haven’t had yet.

Behind her, a house. White siding, black shutters. A porch swing creaking in an absent breeze.

Matilda turned—

And lurched awake, water sloshing over the tub’s edge. Her breath came sharp. The cabin was silent.

Except it shouldn’t have been.

She frowned, grabbing a towel and tying her robe shut. The floorboards didn’t creak as she stepped out, but the air *shifted*—charged, like before a storm.

Matilda moved through the dim hallway, fingers brushing the wall for balance. Her bedroom door was ajar.

And inside—

A figure. Small, hunched near the dresser. Curly hair, shorter than she remembered.

The girl turned.

*El.*

Matilda stood frozen for a heartbeat, her breath caught in her throat. The girl—**El**—looked older than the ghostly child she remembered from the lst time she saw her. Her face had sharper edges now, her dark curls shorter, her eyes wary but searching.

Before El could speak, Matilda closed the distance between them, her fingers trembling as they brushed against El’s cheek—solid, *real*. A choked sound escaped her, half-laugh, half-relief, and then she pulled El into a tight hug, her arms locking around the girl like she might vanish if she let go.

El stiffened for a fraction of a second before sinking into it, her small hands gripping the back of Matilda’s damp robe. They stayed like that until Matilda finally pulled back, hands moving rapidly in ASL.

**“When did you come back? Does anyone know you’re here?”**

El’s gaze flicked to Matilda’s lips, then down to her hands. She responded hesitantly, voice quiet but steady. “A year. Living with Hopper.”

Matilda blinked. **“A *year*?”** Her hands faltered, fingers pressing briefly to her forehead. Of course Hopper wouldn’t have told her. He’d always been careful, protective—especially with the way Hawkins watched anything unusual.

El shifted on her feet, eyes darting to the cabin’s open door, like she could still hear the echo of some argument she’d left behind. “Didn’t want to stay in the trailer. Needed… air.”

Matilda softened. She knew that feeling—needing space from walls that felt like cages. She knelt slightly to meet El’s eyes, signing slower this time. **“How’d you find my place?”**

A faint shrug. “Followed the trees. Felt… you.”

*Felt you.* The words settled somewhere deep in Matilda’s chest. She exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair before gesturing toward the kitchen. **“Come on. I’ve got fresh orange. Or, hell, you probably want—”**

El’s nose wrinkled. “Eggos?”

Matilda barked a laugh. **“Not a chance. I don’t keep that much sugar in the house.”** She nudged El toward the small wooden table. **“But there’s leftover stew. And bread.”**

As she moved to the stove, her mind raced. A year. Hopper had kept El hidden for a year, and Matilda hadn’t *felt* her at all? Then again, she’d been careful not to poke into minds or dreams lately—not after what had happened with Will’s visions.

She stole a glance at El, who was running her fingers along the grooves of the table, tracing the marks like a map.

**“You’re not just here for air, are you?”**

El’s hand stilled. She hesitated before admitting, softly, “i dont want to hide. I want to see my friends.”

Remember Me?

Summary: Matilda Hamilton lived in Hawkins for as long as she can remember but nobody barely knew who she was. She maybe deaf but know things are off and is willing to find answers shes looking for. Even taking risks.