Chapter Text
Dimmadelphia’s Enrichment Academy tries very hard not to feel like a school, but it smells too much like standard cleaner, dry-erase markers, and budding ambition to be anything else.
The floors are a polished linoleum, the color of pink lemonade, and the brick walls are mostly yellow with a random pink brick here or there to match the floor. Lockers coded by learning pathways and corkboards filled with school or club events and fliers line the walls between classroom doors. In the corner of each hallway, there’s a little potted tree surrounded by motivational quotes about mindfulness and growth. But even the most enrichment-friendly school still sounds like a hundred kids cracking open juice boxes and zipping Velcro sneakers when lunch starts.
Hazel takes a seat at her usual table while her friends hop into the lunch line. She’s got her lunch box already open—triangle-cut sandwiches, strawberries, and a bottle of apple juice. Her backpack hangs off the back of her chair, a pair of pink and green bubble fidget toys clipped to the strap.
As she waits, she looks around the cafeteria. This room, compared to the many other rooms in the school, is a cavernous, sunlit space that tries, valiantly, to disguise itself as something cooler than it is. And the floor, for whatever reason, is white here—still shiny, with little holographic flecks that catch the overhead lighting and shimmer under students’ sneakers, and the walls are entirely blue. One wall is entirely windows, fitted with pale yellow roller blinds that are almost always halfway down, letting in just enough sunlight to make the place feel lively but not too distracting.
The tables are long and plastic, with a silver napkin holder at each end. Some have stickers peeling off the sides, where past students have attempted to add more character. One of them might even have a pair of googly eyes.
The lunch lines only serve the basics: pizza triangles, fruit cups, bento snack packs, and mystery casserole with an alarming amount of quinoa. There’s a mural on the far wall behind the lunch lines of an abstract city skyline with stylized gears and leaves growing out of the buildings. A giant banner above it reads, “Fuel Up Your Brain—Healthy Food, Healthy Mind!” And in the far back corner, there’s a water bottle refill station that hums softly next to the compostable utensils bin.
Noise carries easily here, kids chatter and laugh, and fork tines click against reusable trays. Someone at the center table starts beatboxing with a spoon against a juice box, and someone else joins in with a freestyle poem about the spaghetti on Fridays. There’s always one kid trying to trade carrot sticks for cookies. A pair of teachers monitor from a standing-height table near the mural wall, sipping coffee or green tea and scrolling through emails.
Finally, Hazel sees her friends coming towards her.
“I heard someone from Dimmsdale is opening it,” Winn says, taking a seat with their tray of lunch food. “Like, a real comic book artist. Did indie stuff back in the early 2010s. Self-published before it was cool.”
Hazel blinks. “Opening what?”
“The new comic and game store,” they say, excited. “On Maple and Sixth? It’s called ‘Page Turner Comics.’” They lean forward, brushing a few strands of pink-purple hair from their eyes. “You seriously didn’t know? The flyers are everywhere.”
“Oh, that thing?” Jasmine pipes up, pulling a grape from her fruit cup. “I thought it was just some old guy trying to sell baseball cards or whatever to weird dads.”
Winn scoffs, looking personally offended for the guy. “He’s not old. He’s like… in his mid- to late-thirties. That’s peak creative age. And I saw the logo—it has original art. Not just licensed stuff. Like real brushwork, thick lines, maybe ink and wash.”
Hazel raises an eyebrow. “You can tell all that from a flyer?”
“Winn can tell what cereal an artist eats based on how they draw shoes,” Jasmine teases, brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Very funny,” Winn mutters. “Anyway, my mom read on the neighborhood board that the guy moved nearby with his daughter. Some people said it was kind of… sudden.”
Hazel quietly pops a strawberry in her mouth, eyes flicking toward her backpack. The two fidget toys clipped to her backpack twitch a little as they listen in, sharing their only thoughts between themselves.
“Oooooooh,” murmurs Cosmo, voice muffled and invisible to anyone without the right kind of wishing imagination. “I love mysterious strangers with hidden pasts! That’s how half of my favorite soap operas start!”
“That was your soap opera,” Wanda deadpans. “It got canceled after one episode. They just couldn’t understand art.”
Hazel bites back a smile and looks back at Winn and Jasmine. They’re talking over each other now, arguing good-humoredly that real fans can tell the difference between digital and traditional line art. Hazel attempts to follow along, but before long, her attention drifts again.
Someone new is moving to town. A new girl. Maybe she’s the same age? She’s also moving here abruptly, kinda like Hazel and her parents did after Antony left for college. Like her, the new girl probably won’t have any friends to speak to or sit with during lunch.
Hazel remembers what that felt like—arriving mid-year with a backpack full of notebooks that didn’t match the school’s supply list, wondering who to sit with, how to make friends. Did anyone think she was cool? Would anyone notice if she never said anything at all? She didn’t have the best of a time for the first couple of weeks, and it’s only thanks to Cosmo and Wanda that she even started coming out of her shell.
“We should be nice to her,” she says suddenly.
Winn pauses mid-rant about brushstroke integrity. “To who?”
“The new girl.” Hazel looks up, firm now. “She’s probably nervous. I mean, who moves mid-year without something weird going on?”
Jasmin shrugs. “Weird isn’t always bad.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Hazel replies, brushing crumbs from her lap. “I just… I think we should make her feel welcome. She’s probably starting sometime soon. If I were her, I’d want someone to talk to.”
Winn sets their juice carton down, a little more carefully than they needed to as a thoughtful expression crosses their features. “You’re right.”
Hazel watches him, surprised he didn’t argue or make a joke.
Jasmin nods once, chewing on a grape. “We’ll sit with her. Or let her sit with us, if she wants. But if she’s weird in a bad way, I reserve the right to text you about it.”
Hazel nods, mostly content with that answer, and munches on another strawberry. The tart sweetness coats her tongue.
She wonders what the new girl likes to do. Does she like learning new things? Will she like rocks? Scary movies? French fries? Since her dad owns a comic shop, does she like Prime Meridian? Or will she be more like Jasmine or Winn? Is she passionate about something specific? Like singing or skateboarding? Or does she prefer to try new things and never settle on a favorite? The possibilities are endless!
“We should figure out what she’s into,” Winn says suddenly, echoing Hazel’s thoughts a little too well. “Then we won’t sound like total randoms when we talk to her.”
“She’s probably into books,” Jasmin says, flicking a grape stem into her empty cup. “You know, the classic new-girl vibe. Quiet, mysterious, mysterious-er. Probably draws wolves in the margins of her planner.”
Hazel gives a soft snort. “Why wolves?”
“Because that’s what girls draw when they have trauma,” Jasmin replies, deadpan.
“I drew wolves,” Winn says.
“Exactly,” Jasmin answers, smirking.
Hazel rests her chin in her hand and watches the lunchroom’s movement—kids darting between tables, cartons being traded, laughter echoing from the far corner where someone’s trying to see if chocolate milk can be frozen using just ice cubes.
She doesn’t realize how quiet it’s gotten at their end of the table until a voice cuts in from just behind her shoulder.
“Well, if it isn’t Habanero, the Spicy Thinker.”
Hazel groans inwardly before she even turns around. She already knows that voice. She knows the cadence, the smirk laced into every vowel. Dev. He of the oversized name, the stupidly expensive sneakers, and the matching ego—stands there holding his lunch tray like a knight wielding a shield made of juice boxes and lunchables.
“It’s Hazel,” she replies, without inflection. But deep down, the words sting. She misses when they were friends.
“Right, right,” he says, like he’s deeply apologetic and not at all about to make it worse. “Sorry, Hazmat.”
Cosmo’s fidget form gives a tiny offended bounce on her backpack strap. “I liked ‘Habanero.’ He thinks you’re spicy!”
“I’m going to turn him into a pineapple,” Wanda mutters.
“Hazel,” Winn corrects, voice flat. They eye the Dimmadome heritor with a growing sense of disdain.
Dev turns to Winn like he’s just noticed them. “Hey, Winnebago. What’s up?”
“That’s not even—whatever.” Winn exhales through their nose. It’s no use arguing with someone looking for a fight.
“Page Turner Comics,” Jasmin says pointedly, diverting the conversation. “That new store? You heard about it, Dev?”
“Obviously,” Dev scoffs, “My dad said the guy used to work for Pixel Slam Studios. The one who did Starship Bonanza before the lawsuit. Pretty sure he’s, like, totally washed. Moved here to disappear or whatever.”
Hazel’s lips press into a thin line. Part of her secretly wishes that Dev had a brighter outlook on life, but with the way his dad treats him… it’s not something that’ll change so easily on a whim.
“Or maybe he came to start over.” She says.
Dev raises an eyebrow, something about her tone—quiet, calm, not biting but not backing down either—makes him pause. Just for a second. His mouth twitches like he wants to fire back, but the retort never quite makes it past his lips. Instead, he shifts his weight, tray tipping slightly in his hands, and his gaze flickers—just briefly—to Hazel’s face. Not her eyes. Just… somewhere near. Her cheek, maybe. Like if he looks too directly, he might give something away.
Then he clears his throat, one shoulder lifting in a half-hearted shrug. “Whatever. I’m just saying. Could be cool, I guess.”
Hazel narrows her eyes. “You guess?”
Dev doesn’t answer that. Instead, he glances toward the middle of the cafeteria, where Trev and a couple of their usual crew are clustered around a tray of nachos and a phone set on low volume, watching a stream of a game tournament.
“I gotta sit over there,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.
“Later, Hazelnut,” he tosses over his shoulder, voice light again. But there’s a pink tinge creeping up the back of his neck as he walks away, making a show of swaggering toward his usual table like nothing at all just happened.
Hazel watches him go, mostly because he’s still talking as he moves—loud, half-joking jabs at Trev’s lunch choice—and partly because she’s not sure why he came over in the first place. Sure, he teased her like normal, but it wasn’t to the extent he usually does. What’s going on?
Winn arches an eyebrow. “Did he just—”
“Yes,” Jasmin cuts in, blinking after him. “Yes, he did. He absolutely did.” She kicks Hazel lightly under the table.
“What?” Hazel asks, blinking and turning back.
“Nothing,” Jasmin says, voice sing-song.
Winn is smirking into their juice box. “Absolutely nothing,” they add, sipping with theatrical innocence.
Hazel frowns at them both. “Okay, but you’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Jasmin asks, wide-eyed.
“The look thing. Where you’re both trying not to laugh like there’s a joke I’m not getting.” She narrows her eyes at her friends. “Is there something on my face?”
“Just the sweet, sweet glow of being admired,” Jasmin says with a fake sigh, as if that explains anything.
Hazel blinks. “What are you talking about?”
Before either of them can answer, the overhead bell trills. A collective groan rises from the room. Shoes squeak on the linoleum floor. Trays clatter into stackable bins. The beatboxer gives one last sad tap to his juice box.
Hazel hastily finishes her juice and starts packing up her lunch, her mind still half-stuck on that look Jasmin gave her. And the one Winn didn’t even try to hide. And Dev, who didn’t say anything that weird, but also hadn’t acted like his usual irritating self.
She clips her lunchbox closed and slings her backpack over one shoulder. The fidget toys bounce against her side as she joins the tide of kids filing out of the cafeteria, Jasmin and Winn close behind.
“Seriously,” she says as they step into the hallway. “What just happened?”
“Nothing,” Winn says again.
“Nothing,” Jasmin echoes.
They share a look behind Hazel’s back.
Hazel huffs and walks a little faster. If there is a joke, she’s going to get to the bottom of it. She just… might have to check her face in the mirror first. Just in case.
—
By the time the last bell rings, Hazel’s still not sure what was weirder: the way Dev casually wandered over to talk to her, or the smug silence from her best friends afterward. They’d stayed maddeningly tight-lipped all the way through sixth period, exchanging glances like two sitcom sidekicks who knew more than they were letting on. Hazel had tried to focus on class—really—but her mind kept circling back, like a bee stuck in a room with one window.
Now she’s speed-walking home, shoes thudding against the pavement. She rounds the corner to her street just in time to catch a glimpse of a large moving truck easing away from the curb, its engine growling low. It’s white and boxy, the kind with faded company lettering half-worn off the side. The ramp clatters up behind it with a bang, and then it pulls off down the block, leaving only the smell of diesel and a few scattered packing peanuts in its wake.
Hazel slows to a halt at the edge of the sidewalk, eyebrows drawing together. She tips her head, eyeing the building in front of her. Her apartment complex is old but sturdy, the kind of place with creaky steps and faded doormats. It’s not the kind of building where people move in often. Most of the tenants have been there for years (except for Hazel and her family). The truck hadn’t been there that morning when she left. Which means someone must have just moved in today.
And any new arrival is kind of a big deal.
Hazel fumbles up the brick stairs and into the front entrance, the old wooden door wheezing shut behind her. She pauses in the foyer, listening. The building smells like it always does—somewhere between old carpet, curry from the third floor, and the faint moldy scent of air from the AC. There’s no noise upstairs. No one is talking or dragging furniture around. For a second, she wonders if maybe she imagined the truck.
But then her gaze catches on something new: a cardboard box tucked awkwardly beside the mailboxes, labeled in thick black marker with a name she doesn’t recognize. T. Turner.
The name doesn’t ring a bell. Definitely new.
Hazel leans a little closer, inspecting the box like it might offer more clues if she just looks hard enough. It’s not taped shut, just folded closed, the kind of thing someone might’ve brought in from the truck but forgotten to take to their apartment.
Her curiosity flares. She lives on the second floor and she knows everyone up there. Cosmo and Wanda are ‘renting’ the apartment just across from her, and a sweet elder lady called Mrs. Jeong lives next to them on the other side of the elevator; she always makes the best honey cookies. Then there’s the retired gentleman who lives at the end of the hall; he always smells like Andy’s mints and walks his cat on a leash. As far as she knew, the last unit has been empty for a while, and she doesn’t know anything about the other floors.
As Hazel eyes the box, wondering who T. Turner is and whether they’ll be weird or normal or somewhere in between, a whoosh of air and faint sparkle of fairy dust poofs up behind her. She turns to find two figures shimmer into place beside her in a faint shower of sparkles. The air smells faintly of bubblegum and freshly opened cans of soda.
Cosmo and Wanda now stand there in their human disguises—sort of.
Wanda adjusts the collar of her sunshine-yellow blouse, brushing a bit of fairy dust off her sleeve like this is just another normal Tuesday. Cosmo, on the other hand, does not. He totters alarmingly beside her in his usual unbuttoned lime-green shirt and—Hazel squints— his legs are backwards . Not twisted or turned around. Backwards. Knees bending the wrong way, feet somehow still facing front. He’s smiling like he doesn’t even notice, which is probably the worst part.
“Cosmo, honey,” Wanda says through clenched teeth. “Legs.”
Cosmo peers down at himself, blinking. “Ohhh, that explains why walking felt like two flamingos doing the cha-cha in a dryer!”
With a flick of her wand, Wanda taps his shoulder. There’s a sound like a rubber band snapping back into place, and Cosmo’s legs instantly fwip the right way around. He wobbles, flailing his arms a bit, then beams.
“There we go!” he chirps, striking a pose. “Now I can moonwalk forward! It’s so much easier.”
Hazel sneezes from the fairy dust and then stifles a laugh in the crook of her elbow. “You guys are so weird!”
Wanda chuckles, a little wry. “We are undercover godparents. Weird is kind of in the job description.”
“Yeah!” Cosmo chimes in. “And you haven’t even seen my jazz hands yet.” He lifts both hands and wiggles his fingers—now miniature instruments—dramatically. “Ta-da!”
Hazel smiles despite herself, the last bits of her school day melting a little.
Wanda smiles at her before squinting at the box near the parcels. Slowly, the grin slips from her face. Then, as if sensing her change of mood, Cosmo’s fingers droop mid-wiggle. He follows her eyes, and his smile falters too.
Hazel straightens. “What’s wrong?”
Wanda doesn’t answer right away. Her hand slowly lowers to her side, the wand vanishing with a shimmer of light that fades too quickly. She looks at the name on the box like it’s something fragile and sharp all at once. Her expression flickers—not confused, not surprised exactly, but… lost. Like something heavy and old has stirred loose in the back of her mind.
“It… it just that name seems familiar,” she says finally, voice soft.
Cosmo, unusually quiet, edges a little closer to her. He’s still looking at the box, but his usual buoyant energy has gone somewhere distant. “Like déjà vu made of marshmallows and… and sadness.”
Wanda reaches for his hand without looking, and he takes it.
Hazel tilts her head. “Are you guys okay?”
“We’re fine, sweetie,” Wanda says gently. But she doesn’t smile.
Cosmo nods, a slow, thoughtful motion that doesn’t suit him. “Yeah. Totally fine. It’s just…” He squints at the letters again. “It’s like hearing a song you forgot you loved until it made you cry.”
They both go quiet after that.
Hazel watches them, unsure if she should say something else. Their whole vibe has shifted—like someone opened a window and let winter air into a cozy room. She’s never seen them like this.
She glances back at the box. Just a name. T. Turner. No address, no apartment number. Just blocky handwriting and slightly crumpled cardboard. But something about it clearly matters. A lot.
Wanda’s eyes look wet. Not crying—but close. Cosmo leans a little closer into her, and Wanda squeezes his hand like she needs the anchor.
“Come on,” Wanda says gently after a moment. “I bet your mom and dad are wondering where you’re at.” She gestures toward the stairs.
Hazel shoulders her backpack and follows them, her shoes tapping up the steps. The cardboard box stays exactly where it is—quiet, unassuming, and full of mystery. What could the name T. Turner possibly mean to her fairy godparents? Who are they? Which apartment are they in? She has so many questions.
And there’s only so much excitement her little body can contain.
She hugs Cosmo and Wanda goodbye, more out of habit than anything else, before bursting through the front door of her family’s apartment like a shot fired from a confetti cannon. Her sneakers thump against the entryway floor, and the door bangs shut behind her with the familiar rattle that always makes her parents wince. Her backpack thuds to the floor in a heap, faceless fidget toys jangling with the impact.
“Moooooom!” she yells before the door even swings shut. “Dad! Somebody moved into the last apartment on our floor!”
The scent of dinner—garlic, sweet pepper, and something gently sizzling—drifts in from the kitchen, but Hazel’s already halfway down the hall, skipping over the worn runner with socked feet.
Angela is at the stove, stirring a pan with practiced ease, hoop earrings catching the light with every turn of her head. Marcus leans against the counter, a dish towel slung over one shoulder as he chops bell peppers with deliberate focus.
Both of them glance up as Hazel barrels in.
“I’m serious!” she says, breathless. “There was a moving truck and a box forgotten by the mailboxes, and Cosmo and Wanda even poofed in and—well, never mind about that—but someone actually moved in next door! Like right next to us, next door. What if they have a kid? Or a dog? Or a whole collection of rare bobbleheads? We have to go say hi!”
Angela raises an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smile. “You got all that from a forgotten box?”
“It said ‘T. Turner’ on it,” Hazel says, gesturing like that explains everything. “Which definitely means they’re interesting. You don’t get a name like that and end up boring.”
Marcus chuckles. “Hazelnut, slow down. Let them at least unpack a suitcase first.”
“But it’s the perfect time to bring something over,” she insists, bouncing on her toes now. “We could bake cookies! Or muffins! Or that cinnamon swirl bread you made last month—everyone loves that bread!”
Angela laughs, setting the spoon down and turning toward her daughter. “Hazel. They just moved in. Let them catch their breath. You don’t want to knock on someone’s door while they’re still figuring out which box has their toilet paper in it.”
Marcus grins. “Give it a night. Tomorrow is Saturday—plenty of time to bake something then. You can even pick the recipe.”
Hazel groans like they’ve suggested she wait a year, but she flops dramatically against the counter anyway. “Fiiiiine. But if they move out again before I get to say hi, I’m blaming both of you.”
Angela leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Hazel’s head. “Fair enough. But until then, you can help me finish dinner.”
—
Later, the apartment hums with quiet. The dishes are stacked in the drying rack, the hallway lights are dimmed. Hazel shuffles into her room in her favorite mismatched pajamas—one sleeve pink with frogs, the other striped like a candy cane. She’s yawning before she even makes it to the bed.
Cosmo and Wanda are already there, in full fairy form, floating near the lamp on her nightstand like two colorful fireflies. Cosmo’s wings twitch as he flutters upside-down, trying to balance a button on his nose. Wanda’s got her wand tucked behind one ear like a pencil, arms folded, watching him with fond exasperation.
Hazel crawls under the covers with a contented sigh. “G’night, Cosmo,” she mumbles, her voice a sleepy whisper. “Night, Wanda.”
“Goodnight, Hazel,” Wanda says gently, her voice soft as cotton. “Sweet dreams.”
Cosmo chimes in with, “Dream of marshmallow clouds and blue Jell-o seas!”
Hazel giggles, her smile lingering even as her eyes slip closed. “I hope the new neighbors are great,” she murmurs, barely audible now. “I hope they’re the kind of people who like comics... and cinnamon bread... and weird kids with fairy godparents.”
“Well, Squirt, you’ll be able to meet them tomorrow,” Wanda shushes gently, tucking her and Cosmo’s latest godchild to bed.
The room quiets, her breathing slow and steady. The two fairies exchange a glance and then, with twin pops of shimmering poof-magic, vanish from the bedroom in flashes of pink sparkly clouds.
They reappear just outside the Wells’ apartment, hovering quietly in the dim hallway, the soft hum of the building air conditioning and the creak of the old pipes the only sounds around them. Wanda folds her arms again, brow furrowed, and Cosmo, still upside down, bobs lazily in midair, spinning slowly like a balloon caught in a draft.
“ T. Turner,” Wanda says, the name curling uneasily off her tongue. “You don’t think...?”
Cosmo floats upright in a sudden jolt, eyes wide and uncharacteristically serious. “You don’t think it’s him, do you? Like Timmy Turner? Our Timmy Turner?”
Wanda chews her lip, wand twirling between her fingers. “I don’t know. Turner isn’t exactly a common name, but it’s not all that uncommon either.”
Cosmo gasps suddenly. “What if it’s a pseudonym for a vampire?! Like The Turner? What if he’s plotting to turn everyone into a vampire?!”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “Cosmo, vampires haven’t live outside of Romania since the Middle Ages.”
“You don’t know that!” Cosmo whispers loudly, zipping behind a houseplant like something might be eavesdropping.
Wanda sighs. “We don’t even know if it is him yet. T. Turner could be anybody. Thomas. Teresa. Tiberius.”
“Tomato!” Cosmo adds brightly.
“Certainly not that.” Wanda smiles softly, amused.
They float in silence for a moment. The hallway is quiet. “If it is him… things could get complicated. Once our Timmy turned eighteen, he had to forget us. Poof, memories wiped, fairy file sealed. If this really is Timmy…”
“…then he doesn’t even know us anymore,” Cosmo finishes, eyes turning glassy. “Our little boy won’t even know who we are!”
Wanda doesn’t respond right away. She eyes the door at the end of the hall, face unreadable. Then she says, “We’ll know soon enough. Hazel’ll probably be knocking on their door first thing in the morning. If it’s him… We’ll deal with it. Carefully. Quietly.”
Cosmo nods solemnly. “Like Ninja Turtles.”
“No, Cosmo. Not like Ninja Turtles.”
He frowns. “Awww. But they’re so stealthy.”
She lets out a soft laugh despite herself, and they both drift slowly across the hall to their apartment, their wings giving off just the faintest sparkle.