The house was strange. Beautiful, comfortable. But strange. The clocks ticked, but the time never changed

“Who is that woman?” Holly asked after she’d been in the house for an entire day and still hadn’t been introduced to the woman upstairs.

She’d seen her again—just a flicker of movement behind the lace curtains. A pale face, unmoving. Watching.

Mr. Whatsit didn’t look up from the teacup he was polishing. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Whatsit,” he said lightly. “But she’s come down with the flu, which is why you haven’t met her yet. Wouldn’t want you to get ill as well.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did.

Holly frowned. “She was standing at the window.”

“Was she?” he said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “She’s always been a bit restless when she’s under the weather. Nothing to worry about.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you draw something for her?” he interrupted, already reaching for a box of crayons. “She’d love that” Holly got distracted when Henry started talking about bringing ‘dipshit’ derek and her other classmates to the house as well.

It was two days later when Henry was almost sure Holly would not go into the woods she finally met the woman in the window. “She’s feeling better,” he said. “Finally. I think it’s time.”

He led her to the sitting room, where the curtains were drawn and the light was soft and golden, as always. The woman stood by the fireplace, hands folded neatly in front of her, wearing a pale blue dress that looked like it had been ironed a hundred times.

“Darling,” Henry said, his voice warm and proud, “this is Holly. She’ll be living with us from now on.”

The woman turned.

There was something awfully familiar about her. Holly’s breath caught.

She knew that face.

From home.

“Hello, dear,” the woman said, smiling kindly. “Tea?”

Her voice was gentle, but there was something behind it. A tremor. A question.

Holly nodded slowly, eyes locked on hers. “Yes, please.” It took her one more day.

One more day of wandering the house’s endless, too-clean halls. One more day of Mr. Whatsit humming tunelessly as he arranged flowers that never wilted. One more day of watching you from the corner of her eye, trying to place the ache in her chest every time you smiled.

And then it hit her.

She was brushing her hair in the mirror when the memory surfaced—uninvited, sharp.

A funeral. White lilies. A closed casket. Her mother’s hand on her shoulder. Steve Harrington standing at the back of the church, eyes red, jaw clenched, not speaking to anyone.

Y/N Y/L/N.

The pretty cheerleader. The one who used to date Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington and volunteered at the hospital. The nurse who gave her an extra lolly when she broke her leg. The one who died when the earth cracked open and swallowed half of Hawkins.

But she wasn’t dead.

She was here.

She was Mrs. Whatsit.

And she was trapped.

Holly waited until Henry left again—off to tend the garden that never grew, or perhaps to hum to the walls like he always did. The moment the front door clicked shut, she crept into the parlor, where you sat on the floral loveseat, hands folded neatly in your lap, staring at the fireplace that hadn’t been lit in days.

“Y/N?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your head turned slowly, eyes wide and polite. “Sorry?”

She swallowed. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

A pause.

You blinked once. Then again. “Holly dear, are you feeling well?”

Holly stepped closer, her fists clenched at her sides. “Are you?”

You tilted your head, smile still fixed in place. “Of course. Darling—” you hesitated, just for a breath, just long enough for something to flicker behind your eyes. “A letter came for you.” (Almost sure)

Holly blinked. “A letter?”

You reached into the pocket of your apron and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The edges were soft, worn, like it had been read a hundred times. You handed it to her with delicate fingers.

She took it slowly, eyes narrowing. “Who’s it from?”

You didn’t answer. Not directly.

“You must go to the woods,” you said, voice light, almost sing-song. Your smile never wavered. “It’s very important.”

Holly’s heart skipped. “What? But Henry said—” (almost sure)

“The fox is waiting,” you interrupted, tone still sweet, but your eyes—your eyes were pleading.

——————

The woods were colder than the house.

The trees here didn’t sway. They loomed. The air was thick with silence, like the whole forest was holding its breath.

Holly stumbled through the underbrush, clutching the letter you gave her, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what she was looking for—only that you’d said the fox is waiting, and somehow, she knew what that meant.

Max.

She found her near the red tree, crouched low in the undergrowth, eyes sharp and wary. Her hair was longer now, tangled and wild, but her face was the same—older, maybe, but still Max.

Holly gasped. “Max?”

Max stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “Holly?”

And just like that, the world shifted.

When Holly came back before Henry, you were relieved. Max took Holly to her cave

Max explained what she could. About Henry. About the way he built his world out of memories and grief. About the people he pulled in. About the ones who never got out.

Holly listened, wide-eyed, the pieces clicking into place.

“Mrs. Whatsit,” she said slowly. “That’s Y/N, isn’t it?”

Max nodded. “Yeah. That’s her, all right.”

“I don’t understand,” Holly whispered. “She died. We went to her funeral.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “She didn’t die. Not really. He took her. Right before the quake. I don’t know how. I don’t even think she knows.”

Holly looked down at her hands. “She’s so… quiet. Like she’s trying to be perfect.”

“She’s surviving,” Max said. “That’s what he wants. A perfect little world. A perfect little wife.”

Holly hesitated. “Maybe Henry… liked her?”

Max’s eyes darkened. “He wanted her. That’s not the same thing.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and cold.

“He calls her Mrs. Whatsit,” Holly said. “But she’s still in there. I saw her. She remembered me.”

“She’s fighting,” Max said. “But he’s strong. He doesn’t just trap your body. He rewrites you. Makes you forget who you are.” Holly looked back toward the trees, toward the house that wasn’t a house. “We have to help her”

————

You were relieved when Holly came back before Henry did.

You didn’t exactly know why.

Or maybe you didn’t remember.

You had dinner, the three of you. Roast chicken that never cooled. Mashed potatoes that tasted like memory. Holly barely spoke. You smiled too much. Henry carved the meat with surgical precision, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Afterward, you washed the dishes while he dried them. Holly sat at the table, staring at the red crayon in her hand like it might bite her.

And then, as always, you and Henry went upstairs.

You slept in the same bed. You always did.

The sheets were cold and stiff, tucked too tight. The room smelled like lavender and dust.

Henry took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand with care, as if they were made of glass and secrets.

He turned to you, voice soft. “How was your day?”

You smiled. “Lovely.”

He reached for your hand beneath the covers, lacing his fingers through yours. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you said.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “About how lucky I am.”

He smiled, pleased. “You are.”

You nodded. “I know.”

And you meant it. Or… you thought you did. You loved him, didn’t you? You must have. He saved you. He gave you peace. He gave you this house, this life, this stillness.

He gave you himself.

And yet—

Sometimes, when he touched you, you felt like glass. Like something fragile he was keeping on a shelf. Something he dusted and admired, but never really saw.

You turned toward him, resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Predictable.

Safe.

“I’m glad Holly’s here,” you said.

“She’ll settle in,” he murmured. “Just like you did.”

You closed your eyes.

And in the dark, something inside you whispered: