All Of Your Pieces (38 - The Last Goodbye)
Chapter Summary: She’s older—you are too—but the sight still knocks the air clean out of you. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Silver at the roots of her dark hair, though you can tell she tries to hide it with boxed dye. You’ve never seen her carry herself this light, like the world’s actually been kind to her for once. And that thought alone makes the smile on your face reach your eyes.
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6.5k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: None
A/N: This is mostly Wanda's side of things and... of course there's the light at the end of the tunnel, I promise. I can't believe we're finally done! I had fun writing this one, and this is special to me because its my homage to MCU Wanda. Thank you to everyone who followed this story or read a chapter. My special thanks to all those who commented, liked, reblogged and sent me messages. You guys are the best :) // More author's notes here.
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When she closes her eyes, Wanda can still see it as if it’s happening all over again—you, reaching out for her, just as she pushes you into an oblivion of her own making. Into a place where she feels you’ll be safest, where you’ll be cocooned in warmth and love—a place she can never give you herself.
At least that’s what she wholeheartedly believes. That it’s mercy. That it’s love. That she’s sparing you from her, from the grief that clings to her like smoke. But the lie doesn’t hold for long. Because every time she blinks, she sees the look on your face just before the world folded in on itself.
She should’ve felt victorious. The spell worked and you’re safe. The Darkhold’s whispers have gone quiet for the first time in weeks. But Wanda feels nothing close to peace. Because if you ever wake from this—and she knows you will—you’ll never forgive her. Not this time. But if that’s the price for sparing you from the Darkhold’s alternatives, it’s one she’s willing to pay.
When it becomes evident that the pain of your existence will continue to haunt her, Wanda performs a curious spell. A spell she knew from the beginning but her heart fought against.
A spell that would make her forget you. That would make her deaf to any mention of you. Of course, this curse will only be broken if she meets you again—
—which she doubts she ever will.
—
With thoughts of you having left her, Wanda buries herself in the Darkhold. The multiverse is real. She can look into it in her sleep. Her boys are out there, in many worlds.
But she is still confined. She can’t cross. She can dreamwalk, yes, but riding a variant’s body has limits. She can move, speak, even hold them for a fleeting moment, but when her real body is ready to wake up, it all disappears. She becomes nothing more than a distant dream to the version of herself she’s borrowed.
For a time, it’s enough. It becomes her reason for waking and the only thing she looks forward to everyday. In the mornings, she keeps herself busy tending to a small garden, planting crops she doesn’t particularly care about, pulling weeds just to pass the hours. It’s not joy that drives her, but distraction. The slow, repetitive work dulls the noise in her head and carries her through the day until exhaustion finally claims her. Then she sleeps, and the cycle begins again.
Each time she drifts into another universe, she never knows where she’ll land—or which Wanda she’ll become. The Darkhold lets her be for a while, starving her of answers just long enough for desperation to take root. It waits until she’s too weary, too lonely, to care about the cost of whatever solution it will offer next.
America.
A single word.
A name.
Wanda stills, dirt-streaked fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “A child?”
An answer.
Wanda can feel that it’s not going to be a straightforward one. “Go on,” she urges.
A girl who walks between realities as easily as you breathe.
Wanda’s breath catches. “A traveler?”
It sounds impossible—yet so did Westview, so did resurrection. And she’s long past believing in the impossible as anything but another form of truth.
“What would you have me do?” she whispers.
Find her.
It sounds easy enough, but then the Darkhold drops the other shoe.
And take her power.
The taking of power isn’t as simple as it sounds. Taking someone’s power means draining their life—it’s no different from killing them. She argues with the voice, saying she doesn’t need to steal from a child to see her boys again. Maybe America could just help her find the way.
But the Darkhold insists it isn’t a one-way trip. Once Wanda has the power to move freely between worlds, she’ll never have to fear losing them again. No sickness, no danger—nothing will touch her or her sons. She’ll have an answer to every threat, a cure for every loss.
And if she doesn’t take it? It warns her how easily history could repeat itself. She could lose them all over again—and next time, the girl might refuse to help.
It doesn’t take long for that fear to fester into resolve. A few days. Maybe less.
When Wanda opens the book again, somewhere inside, the last quiet part of her that still knows better finally goes still.
—
There are a few moments in between, where Wanda fantasizes a different life.
She grows up in Sokovia without powers. No Hydra, no Avengers. Just school, a cracked mirror, and a city theater that smells like dust and paint. She learns lines in a cold backstage, smiles when the house lights fade, bows to a small crowd that claps like they mean it. Maybe a bit part on television. Maybe a film that takes her to Prague one summer. Posters with her face. Interviews where she laughs and says she’s lucky. People know her name for simple reasons. She is seen. She is liked. She is loved, in the ordinary way.
She comes home late to a warm apartment. The radiator ticks. Soup steams on the stove. Someone’s at the table—a partner without a face—reading, one ankle hooked over the other. She looks up and her smile reaches her eyes before her mouth. Two small pairs of feet slap the hallway. The kids collide with her legs, arms tight around her waist. She kisses their foreheads, one and then the other.
“I missed you,” she tells them, and it isn’t a grand confession, just a trivial fact.
Her spouse hands her a mug. She slips off her shoes. A drawing waits on the fridge with crooked stars and her name spelled wrong. There is laundry on the chair, a note on the counter, a grocery list on the door. Nothing glows red. Nothing whispers in her head. The loudest thing in the world is a child’s laugh.
She lets the scene play out to the end. Bedtime, lights down, your head on her shoulder, your arm wrapped around her as you hum a lullaby right into her ear until she falls asleep.
Wanda knows that deep down, she’s never going to find a universe that fits this fantasy.
—
Securing America is becoming an increasingly difficult endeavor, thanks in no small part to Stephen Strange.
He’s made it his personal crusade to protect the girl, moving her from one world to the next.
Every time Wanda draws close, he’s already there, undoing her spells, breaking her trail. It’s infuriating—especially after Kamar-Taj.
That massacre wasn’t supposed to happen. She hadn’t wanted it to. But Strange forced her hand, building an army of apprentices and sending them to die for a single child. Dozens of them, standing against her like they had any real choice. She can still feel it—their fear, their last desperate resistance before the walls came down. A waste. A sacrifice he could have spared.
All he had to do was give her the girl.
He made you do it, the Darkhold whispers almost comfortingly (if it were capable of comfort). He wanted to prove he could stop you. He killed them, not you.
He stood for something—she’ll give him that. In another life, she might have respected him for it.
Now, she just resents him for making her the villain again.
—
In the end, America learns to fight back. She’s nowhere near Wanda’s level of power, but she doesn’t need to be. She finds the one way to stop her that no spell could ever match.
She opens a portal—not to flee, but to show her.
Wanda braces for another trap, but what she sees through the star-shaped tear is no battlefield.
It’s a home.
Billy and Tommy are there, staring at her. But it isn’t the look she remembers. There’s no recognition, no warmth. Only fear. They pull away when she reaches for them, hurling whatever they can grab in desperation. Wanda tries to soothe them, her voice shaking as she begs them to stop, to look at her, to see her. But they don’t. They can’t.
Her patience fractures under the rejection. Pain twists into anger, and before she can stop herself, the room shudders with her outburst.
Then she sees their faces. Wide eyes. Trembling lips. Her boys, cowering from her presence.
And in that display of fear, Wanda finally understands. She sees—not what she’s lost—but what she’s become.
The sound of her own breathing fills the space, shallow and uneven. She stands there, motionless, staring at the two small faces that once meant everything to her. This defeat, this moment, is unlike any she’s ever known. It hollows you out from the inside. The kind that kills without ever touching the body.
Turning to dust had been easier than this. Dying had been easier. That was pain you could surrender to. This is different. This is staying alive while her soul is being snuffed out.
They don’t see her as a mother. Not as the woman who sang them lullabies or dreamed them into being. They see what the world now sees. What she’s refused to see.
A monster.
And for the first time, Wanda doesn’t fight it. She accepts it.
The truth settles in her bones and she sinks to her knees. A sound breaks from her—a choked, ugly thing that doesn’t belong to the woman she once was. Her hands cover her face, but it doesn’t stop the tears. They come in violent waves, wracking sobs that leave her gasping between them. Shame burns through her chest and grief follows close behind. She hasn’t allowed herself to cry since the night she built that lie around you.
The room blurs through her tears. It doesn’t register right away when someone touches her. Fingertips, warm and steady, guiding her face upward.
She forces herself to open her eyes, and when her vision clears through her tears, she sees who’s had the courage to confront the Scarlet Witch.
It’s no other than her variant. Her face is soft, her eyes warm in a way Wanda forgot was possible. She looks like the Wanda who laughed once, who believed she could still be good.
Wanda’s surprised to see no disgust in her eyes, no judgment. Only empathy. Recognition.
“Know that they’ll be loved,” she whispers.
And in that moment, Wanda—the Scarlet Witch—knows what she has to do.
—
A boy finds her.
At first, she doesn’t remember him.
In fact, she doesn’t remember much of anything—not even her own name. She wakes on a cold marble floor, far from the place where she supposedly died her second death, far from the grave the world must have built for her.
A voice breaks through the ringing in her ears. “Mom—hey, can you hear me?”
She turns her head, not understanding his words, only aware of the sound he’s making. The boy kneels beside her, his hands shaking, his face streaked with tears. “You’re alive,” he says, half in disbelief. “You’re really alive.”
Her lips part, but the words won’t come. Her throat is dry. Everything feels distant, muffled. “Where… am I?”
“You’re safe,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound sure. “You were gone. For a long time. But I—I found you.”
She studies his face, trying to recognize him, but nothing comes. The harder she searches, the emptier her mind feels. “Do I know you?” she asks quietly.
He frowns, his thick dark brows coming together in a way that feels familiar somehow. Wanda can’t explain it, but she feels sad having upset him with her question.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, without knowing what she’s apologizing for.
The boy shakes his head quickly, brushing at his eyes. “No, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He tries to smile, but it wavers. “It’s just… you really don’t remember?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “No.”
He swallows hard and forces out his name. “I’m Billy.”
Something about the way he says it feels important. Wanda repeats it under her breath, tasting the sound of it. “Billy.”
He nods. “Yeah. And you’re—” He cuts himself off, teeth pressing hard into his lower lip. If saying her name is what brings her memories back, it shouldn’t happen here. They need to leave this place first before anyone finds them.
Wanda looks around the room distractedly. “W-Where are we? What’s happening?”
Billy follows her gaze, his shoulders tightening as he scans the dark corners of the lab. “I’ll explain everything, I promise,” he says. “This place isn’t safe. People are looking for you. We need to move before they figure out you’re awake.”
Wanda blinks, trying to make sense of his words, but the ringing in her head makes it hard to focus. “Looking for me?” she asks. “Why?”
Instead of answering, he reaches out a hand to her. “Later. For now, you just have to trust me,” he says quietly. “Can you do that?”
Trust.
It feels too big for someone she doesn’t remember, but something about the way he’s looking at her—the urgency, the care—makes it hard not to believe him.
Wanda gives him a small smile and takes his hand.
—
Wanda Maximoff.
That’s her name—she learns it later, when Billy brings her to a small house miles from anywhere. It’s colder here than the lab she woke up in, but more homely too. She doesn’t know what day it is, or even what year, but having a name feels like a start.
Billy looks at her expectantly, as if the name should jog her memory and reveal everything else she’s supposed to know.
“I still don’t understand what’s happening,” Wanda murmurs, staring down at her hands. “Billy, right? Who are you to me?”
Billy hesitates. His mouth opens, then closes again. He wasn’t rehearsing this—he never thought he’d need to. In his mind, the moment she woke up, she would just… remember. She would know him. She would say his name first.
But she doesn’t. She’s looking at him like he’s a stranger.
“I’m…” He tries again, carefully. “I’m someone who’s been trying to find you for a long time.”
Wanda frowns, confused. “Why?”
“Because you matter,” Billy says, wincing at the vagueness of his own words.
She watches him closely. “You talk like you know me.”
“I do.” His voice tightens, just slightly. “You just… don’t remember.”
“Why don’t I remember?”
“I don’t know.” (This he means complete. Painfully.)
Wanda grows quiet. Billy can sense her trust in him faltering. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know you want answers. I just… can’t give you everything right now. Maybe you need a little time. You’re awake now—maybe your memories will start coming back on their own.”
Wanda watches him move around the room, fiddling with tools just to keep his hands occupied. She can tell he’s scared—not of her, but of something else entirely, something she can’t quite put her finger on.
“Thank you,” Wanda murmurs, realizing only then that she hasn’t said it yet. From the look of the place she woke up in, it was nowhere near safe, and he’d gone there anyway.
Billy freezes, and it takes a long second before he looks over his shoulder and acknowledges her gratitude with a smile and a pair of wet eyes.
—
A day passes. Then two. Three. A week. A month.
Three months. And nothing. Not a single memory returns.
It should bother her—how is someone supposed to live without knowing who they are? But it doesn’t. There’s none of that dissatisfaction of not knowing about her past.
She surmises because Billy has been nothing but a great host, a great companion. A friend.
He is patient. Kind. He cooks with her, checks on her, teaches her things she doesn’t remember knowing. He sleeps on the couch so she can have the only bed. He never complains. He never leaves her alone for too long.
So in the absence of a past, Wanda starts building a present with him. And being the only person she’s known since “waking up,” he’s the closest thing to family she has.
But routine wears thin after a while. Billy works long hours at a grocery store in the nearest town, leaving Wanda at home with nothing to do but sweep the floor, wash dishes, and water the plants he insisted would “make the place less depressing.”
Eventually, even that stops being enough.
One morning, she decides she’s had enough of waiting for a life to return to her. She wants to go find one. She leaves a note, walks into town, and spends the whole day searching for anything she might be good at. Turns out, she’s surprisingly good at answering phones and organizing schedules. The small salon on Main Street is desperate for help; they hire her on the spot.
Wanda is proud—genuinely proud—when she walks home with bags of groceries and the news tumbling on her tongue. She doesn’t realize how late it is until she sees the sun dropping low behind the trees.
The moment she steps inside, she freezes.
Billy is pacing the living room, running both hands through his hair, muttering under his breath like he’s seconds from falling apart. When he sees her at the door, he absolutely loses it.
“Where were you?” he snaps—louder than he means to. “Mo—Wanda, you can’t just disappear like that!”
She blinks, surprised. “I—I left a note—”
“I didn’t see a damn note!” he shoots back. “I thought—God, I thought something happened to you.”
Wanda takes a small, uneasy step further into the room, confused and a little hurt. That’s when she notices the table behind him.
A small cake sits in the center, candles melted into crooked stubs. Wax has puddled on the frosting. The candles burned themselves out hours ago.
“What’s all this?” she asks softly, pointing. “What’s the occasion?”
Billy stops pacing. His chest rises sharply as he follows her gaze. “I-It’s your birthday.”
Wanda blinks at him. “My… birthday?” she repeats, almost testing the word.
She doesn’t know why it surprises her so much. Birthdays are normal. Ordinary. Everyone has one. But it hits her strangely—like learning she’s human in a way she didn’t realize she needed to hear.
“I have a birthday?” she murmurs, almost in awe.
And it breaks Billy’s heart a little—seeing his mother, stripped of every wound and every piece of her painful history, standing there so open and unguarded. So painfully, beautifully human.
“How did you even know that?” Wanda asks.
Billy doesn’t answer right away.
Wanda tilts her head, studying him. “Billy?”
He shakes his head, more to himself than to her. “I didn’t want to do this today,” he murmurs. “I wanted this to be good. I wanted it to be… normal.” A bitter laugh slips out. “Stupid, right?”
Wanda’s confusion deepens though softened by concern. “What are you talking about?”
He lifts his eyes to hers, and there’s so much fear there she thinks for a moment something dangerous is coming for them.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” he says, voice barely holding together. “I kept waiting for you to remember on your own. I thought maybe one morning you’d look at me and just… know.”
“Know what?”
“You asked me who I was to you,” he says.
She nods slowly, heart thudding.
His lips press into a trembling line. “I’ve been scared to tell you. Because if I said it and you didn’t remember, or didn’t feel anything… I didn’t know what I’d do.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to look at me like a stranger.”
Wanda’s brows pull together, but she stays silent, letting him speak.
“I was afraid you’d force yourself to care,” Billy continues, wiping his cheek with the heel of his hand. “Afraid you’d pretend for my sake. Or worse—that you wouldn’t feel anything at all.”
She steps closer, close enough to see the way his eyes shine despite how hard he’s trying not to cry.
“Billy,” she whispers, “whatever it is—just tell me.”
He takes a breath that stutters on the way out, then meets her eyes fully, courage and fear warring in his expression.
“What kind of son,” he says softly, voice breaking, “wouldn’t know his mother’s birthday?”
The room goes completely still.
Wanda feels her breath catch—not because anything suddenly comes back, but because something settles hard in her chest and refuses to move. A warmth she can’t explain, spreading slow and deep until it’s too much to hold in. Her eyes sting, and before she can stop it, tears slip out on their own.
She looks at him again, slower this time, really taking him in. The way his eyebrows dip when he’s worried. The shape of his mouth when he tries not to cry. There’s something familiar in all of it, something she can’t name but can’t ignore either.
“You’re…” Her throat tightens. “You’re my son?”
Billy gives one quick nod, head hung low, his jaw trembling as he tries not to fall apart. “Yeah. I am.”
Wanda moves toward him quietly, her steps so light they barely make a sound. Then she lifts a hand—carefully, like she’s approaching a wild animal—and lets her fingertips brush his cheek. He leans into it without thinking, eyes closing for a second.
A tiny, unsure smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Happy birthday to me, I guess,” she says softly.
Billy huffs out a laugh that’s half a sob, and before she can overthink it, Wanda pulls him into a hug. He circles his own arms around her waist carefully, like he’s afraid to scare her off—but it’s desperate in a way she feels all the way down to her ribs.
He’s trembling. She feels it through his jacket. She rests her forehead against his temple and breathes in. She doesn’t remember him. Not his first word, or his favorite food, or the sound of his laugh when he was younger. There are questions swirling in her head like the fact that she has a teenager. She must have gotten pregnant young.
But those questions can wait. Right now, something inside her finally clicks into place. All this time, without even knowing it, she’s been home.
–
After Billy’s revelation, the stories come slowly. She wasn’t ordinary. She was an Avenger. One of the most powerful. That means Billy and his twin brother aren’t ordinary either. Wanda listens, but none of it feels familiar. Nothing stirs, nothing clicks into place. It all sounds like someone else’s life.
They visit a few doctors, hoping for some overlooked explanation or a treatment that might help her remember. Every test comes back the same: there’s no physical reason for the memory loss. No drug that can fix it, and no guarantee it will ever return.
Billy suggests reaching out to one of Wanda’s former teammates—someone who might know more than any doctor. Maybe the answer isn’t medical at all.
Wanda shakes her head before he even finishes. “No,” she says evenly. “Maybe my old life is not meant to be remembered. I like my life now. I’m… happy.”
Billy doesn’t argue. He just nods, even if she can see the worry behind his eyes.
The only regret Wanda feels is the one neither of them speaks aloud:
They still haven’t found Tommy.
Billy told her about Tommy almost right away, once the shock between them settled. He told her that they were originally born in Westview, New Jersey. About how they were born with abilities just like Wanda. That Wanda wasn’t their only parent. That there was you.
And it was your name that she couldn’t hear at all.
The first time Billy said it, Wanda saw his mouth form the word—but the sound didn't reach her. It’s like someone muted the room for a second.
“What was that?” she asked.
Billy repeated it.
“I can’t hear you,” she said. “Why can’t I hear that? Why can’t I read your lips?”
Billy looked startled. Concerned. He tried again, slower. Again, she heard nothing.
“That’s not possible…” Wanda murmured, touching her ears, then her temples. “I can hear everything else. Why not that?”
“I don’t know,” Billy admitted.
“Is it medical?” she asked.
“No. Your tests were clear.”
Wanda sat back, unsettled. “Then what is it?”
Billy took a breath, hesitating. “If I had to guess…it’s a spell. It’s similar to a spell that was cast on me—where I’m barred from saying my own name and people from hearing it.”
“Who would cast something like that on me?” she asked.
He shook his head, helpless. “I don’t know. I don’t even know when it happened. Or why.”
“Are you absolutely sure she’s your other parents?”
Billy nodded. “And if I’m out here, then maybe Tommy and mom are out there, too.”
–
It takes a couple of years for them to find Tommy, and when they finally do, something settles in Wanda that she didn’t realize was still missing.
She’s been happy—truly happy—ever since Billy found her. Even without her memories or a past to lean on. She didn’t need anything else to feel whole; she had her son, and that was enough.
Or at least, she thought it was.
Because the moment Tommy comes back into their lives, an empty space she didn’t know she had been carrying fills instantly.
This is mine too. He’s mine too.
Tommy stumbles when he first sees her. He tries to act unaffected—even cool about it, but once she’s managed to reel him into her arms, what happened to Billy happened to him.
She doesn’t remember him, not the way she wishes she could. But she knows him the way she knows Billy—from the heart. Deep within her soul. Watching the twins together feels like watching two pieces of herself become whole.
Wanda still wonders about you though. She doesn’t know why—she can’t even hear your name—but the twins mention you often enough that the silence around you becomes impossible to ignore. Tommy mentions you too, but her ears go blank just the same. She asks them why, asks if they know who could’ve done that to her. They don’t. It’s the one question neither of them can answer.
So she asks for details instead. What you looked like. How you were with them in Westview. Billy gives her small pieces—your eyes, your laugh, the way you held their little hands when they crossed the street—but he always seems to hold something back. And Wanda can never tell what exactly it is.
It’s Tommy, distracted and unfiltered, who finally says it out loud: there were two versions of you. The one inside the Hex… and the real one outside it. They still don’t know if those two versions were the same person in any meaningful way.
And neither twin has been able to find you.
For a moment, Wanda considers looking for you herself. But each time she even imagines it, she’s overwhelmed with an instinctive guilt she can’t explain. A weight she doesn’t understand, but can’t push past. It keeps her rooted where she is, unsure if she even deserves to know whoever you were to her.
Whoever you still are.
—
You hear the door chime, but you don’t bother looking up. It’s probably one of the neighborhood kids coming in to read for free again. They smudge your shelves with sticky fingers and never buy anything.
You keep sorting through a box of new arrivals until someone clears their throat in front of the counter. You glance up and see a young man—mid-twenties, polite smile, a book already in his hand.
You ring it up, make a comment about it being a good choice, but he shakes his head lightly.
“It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s for my mom.”
You smile. “She must like to read.”
“You could say that. She, uh… she used to read this one to me when I was a kid. Well—before I died once.”
You pause, thinking you misheard him. “Before you…?”
“Drowned,” he says casually, as if he’s telling you about a sprained ankle. “Pool accident. I was out for maybe three minutes? They said it was closer to four. But I came back. Got lucky, I guess.”
You’re caught off guard by how calmly he says it.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” you reply softly.
He gives a small grin, almost sheepish. “Me too.”
He taps the counter lightly. “I was hoping to get her another book too. Something specific. Do you happen to have Griffin & Sabine?”
You check your system, scan your shelves in your head, then wince. “I’m afraid I’m out. My supplier’s been slow lately. I won’t have copies until next week.”
He deflates a little, trying (and failing) not to show it. “That’s too bad. Her birthday’s in two weeks, and she’s been wanting that book for ages. I was hoping to give it to her before I leave, but I’m flying out for a work trip on Monday. I’ll be gone for about a month, so… I’ll miss her birthday, too.”
You lean against the counter, considering him. There’s something familiar in the shape of his smile, something that tugs faintly at a place inside you that rarely stirs anymore. You’ve learned not to chase the feeling—middle age has a way of making nostalgia feel like déjà vu—but something about this boy makes you want to be extra helpful.
“If you want,” you say slowly, “I can put your name on a copy. When the shipment comes in, I’ll set one aside.”
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I won’t be here to pick it up.”
“Who said anything about picking it up?” you say, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Give me your mom’s address. I’ll deliver it myself. Make sure it reaches her on time.”
His eyes brighten—surprised, grateful. “You’d do that?”
“I run a bookstore,” you shrug. In this small town, every sale counts.
“Thank you,” he says. “Really.”
You tear a small sheet from your notepad. “Write her name for me too. So I don’t forget.”
He takes the pen. His handwriting is loopy but neat. When he pushes the note back toward you, you glance down—and feel your breath snag at the name written in even strokes.
Wanda Maximoff.
—
You whisper the name every night before bed, just to make sure it’s real—not a dream or a cruel trick. You rehearse what you might say when you deliver the gift. You rehearse a polite greeting, a smile, a nod. You rehearse what you won’t say, too.
The book arrives two days before her birthday. A pristine hardbound copy, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine—just the way your shop wraps gifts. Her address is scrawled neatly on the order form: the next town over, a charming place you’ve driven past a hundred times without ever stopping.
It’s only an hour and a half away.
And still, you take one look at that address and have to sit down. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s just a delivery. You’ve done hundreds.
You set it aside, ready to drive to the neighboring town tomorrow morning.
But she comes to you first.
—
You usually get fewer than ten customers on a good day—and with school closed today, even the kids who treat your shop like a free library are home. You’re not expecting anyone.
So when the door chime rings at exactly 5:23 in the afternoon, your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.
You lift your head.
And there she is.
She’s older—you are too—but the sight still knocks the air clean out of you. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Silver at the roots of her dark hair, though you can tell she tries to hide it with boxed dye. You’ve never seen her carry herself this light, like the world’s actually been kind to her for once. And that thought alone makes the smile on your face reach your eyes.
She’s holding her phone to her ear.
“Yes, Tommy, I found it. I think I’m at the right place,” she says. The rasp in her voice is a sound you recognize all too well. “I’m picking it up now… Yes, sweetheart. I’ll call you after.”
She pauses, listening, her gaze sweeping the shop, pausing briefly on the shelves, the counter, the windows.
“Yes. I love you too,” she says. She thanks him and ends the call.
Then she steps up to the counter.
You stand very still. You have no idea if you’re breathing.
“I’m here to pick up a book,” she says, offering a polite smile. “My son said he ordered it two weeks ago?”
You open your mouth.
This is the woman you loved before the world fell apart.
This is the woman who held your heart and broke it and rebuilt it and burned it down again.
This is the woman you’ve lived decades without.
And she’s standing in your bookstore, waiting for a gift you promised her son.
You’re not sure what to make of all those truths when there’s recognition in her eyes as she regards you.
You swallow around the knot in your throat. “Yes,” you manage. “You must be—”
But the name catches somewhere between your chest and your tongue.
Wanda tilts her head gently, waiting.
You clear your throat, gather yourself, and try again.
“You must be Wanda Maximoff.”
“Yes,” she says. “That’s me.”
“Let me… just get your package,” you say, already stepping back. “It’s in the storage room.”
It isn’t. The truth is, the book is sitting right under the counter—wrapped neatly, addressed, ready. But panic sweeps through you so fast you can’t breathe. You need a wall at your back before your knees give out.
You duck into the back room and close the door behind you. The moment you’re alone, your breath stutters out in uneven bursts.
Decades. You’ve lived decades without her—built a life, a home, a routine. You have friends, good neighbors, people who check on you, people who care. This town has become a family in all the ways that count.
But none of it prepared you for the reality of Wanda Maximoff standing five feet away, alive and older and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. She clearly doesn’t remember you. What surprises you is how little it hurts compared to what you expected. Maybe because some part of you knows she’s better off this way.
You press a hand to your chest, willing your heart to slow long enough for you to walk back out there without falling apart.
When you finally return to the counter, you’ve smoothed your expression into something that won’t betray the absolute chaos inside you.
You hold out the package. “Here you go.”
She takes it gently, turning the wrapped book over in her hands. Her smile is thoughtful now, almost shy.
“Would it be alright if I open it here?” she asks. “I just want to make sure it’s the right title. Not that I think you’d make a mistake—I just…” She trails off, cheeks coloring. “I mean, I’m sure it’s correct. I just like to check.”
You can only nod.
She smiles in thanks, slipping a finger under the twine. The paper falls away, and when she sees the cover, her whole face lights up.
“Oh, perfect,” she murmurs. “This is the one.”
You should look away—give her privacy, space, anything—but you can’t. You stand there, memorizing the lines of her face as if you haven’t spent the last thirty years trying to forget them.
You want to hold, to stretch this moment out just a little longer. You scramble for something to say, anything to keep her here, but every thought you reach for slips away before it forms. You can feel the seconds ticking down. She’s almost done. She’ll thank you, leave, and this moment—a miracle you didn’t ask for and aren’t sure you deserve—will be gone.
“Thank you,” she says softly, looking up again. “Really. This place is… lovely.” Her gaze drifts around your shelves, taking in the warm lights. “It feels cozy. Peaceful. Do you own it?”
“Yeah. Been running it for a while now.”
She smiles at that—small, approving. “Is it open on Sundays? That’s usually my only free day. I work at the town council during the week, and my weekends…” She chuckles lightly. “Well, my boys keep me busy.”
Boys? Does she have more children? Did Wanda marry? It’s not bad news—of course not, you want what’s best for Wanda. But it’s not exactly thrilling either.
“Oh—I didn’t know you had little ones. I’ve got a whole children’s section—”
“No, no,” Wanda says quickly, waving a hand. “My boys are grown. I just…” She trails off with a faint, sheepish smile.
Oh. You sneak a glance at her hands to confirm that she’s not married. She’s not.
“Right,” you say, clearing your throat and willing the awkwardness to loosen its grip. “Well, yes—we’re open. Sundays are my favorite day to read.”
Her eyes brighten and they light up the entire room. “You’ve always been a bookworm then?”
You shrug, fighting the urge to fidget. “Pretty much. I used to live in New York—had an apartment with more books than furniture.”
“More books than furniture?” she echoes, lightly teasing.
“Yeah,” you say with a small laugh. “Books make great friends.”
“They do,” Wanda murmurs, something wistful passing over her face.
She shifts the wrapped book under her arm, ready to leave. Your pulse spikes, a quiet panic rising in your chest. This is it. This is all you get. Just a moment. Just a transaction. Just a hello and goodbye stretched over thirty years.
But then—
“Oh,” she says gently, turning back to you. “I never asked… what’s your name?”
You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your ears. “It’s… Y/N.”
And unlike every other time, Wanda hears it. She doesn’t realize that it’s the very name her boys have told her countless times. A name she’s wondered so many nights about. But something about hearing it feels like coming up for air after being underwater for so long.
Confusion follows, quick and quiet, but she offers a polite smile anyway.
“It was nice meeting you, Y/N,” she says. “Goodbye.”
The bell over the door chimes as she leaves. You stand there long after she’s gone, staring at the empty space she walked through.
You should’ve said something.
You should’ve stopped her.
You should’ve—
The bell jingles sharply.
She’s back.
Wanda rushes inside so fast she nearly knocks the door into the display shelf. Her eyes are wide and wild and wet, her breaths quick and uneven.
“Y/N,” she says—your name falling from her lips exactly the way it used to—like she’s said it a thousand times before.
“I remember.”
Your heart stops—
“W-What do you remember?”
“That you loved me,” Wanda says tearily.
“And that you loved me too?” you ask hopefully in a whisper.
Wanda nods.
—and then it starts again, harder than ever.
In every other universe, you don’t end up with Wanda. But you’re grateful to be in this one—the only one where you actually do.