five · Y/n story by @ktaerssoi

Rain hammers the windows of the Academy like it's trying to get in. Lightning flickers, and for a split second every portrait in the long hall goes stark white—the Umbrella Academy's six children, painted stiff and solemn, plus one small girl perched on the end of the line who was never officially one of them.

Klaus

I give it ten minutes before Dad's ghost starts nagging me about my posture. Oh, don't everyone volunteer at once.

Diego

pulls the knife out of the mantel with a hard yank Shut up, Klaus. Y/n's late.

Klaus

Relax, Diego. It's her birthday week. Maybe she got laid. It's what I'd be doing.

Allison

without turning from the rain It's not her birthday yet. It's her funeral week, in case you forgot what day it is.

The clock strikes the hour. One by one, six pairs of eyes drift—like they can't help it—to the empty space at the end of the receiving line. The smallest portrait's spot.

Luther

She'll come. She always comes on the anniversary.

Vanya

quietly, to her violin case Nobody always comes.

The rain stops. Just—stops. Mid-pattern. Mid-splash against the glass. The room goes very quiet, the way a held breath is quiet, and then comes a sound from the courtyard that doesn't belong to wind or weather. A crack of air folding in on itself. Like something tearing.

Diego

knife frozen mid-throw ... Did you hear that?

Klaus

I heard nothing, which is what makes it terrifying, because the rain just stopped, and—oh, God. Is it Dad? He's back to nag me about the crystals again, isn't he.

For a moment, nothing. The windows drip. The clock ticks. Somewhere above, in the attic, a floorboard shifts—not a footstep exactly. More like a landing.