CHAPTER 96 – WHISPERS IN THE ATTIC
The morning sun pushed through the trees around the mansion, painting gold across the long stone walls. The place was too quiet—too clean—like the house itself was holding its breath after everything that had gone down in the stars.
Logan stepped out of his room, tugging his shirt into place, cigar already pinched between his teeth. His boots hit the hallway floor heavy as ever. The quiet was wrong, too wrong. His ears twitched.
Voices.
No—not voices. Just one voice.
He cocked his head, sniffed the air. The sound was soft, lilting, almost musical. And it was coming from the attic.
Storm.
Logan squinted, muttering under his breath. "Now what's the weather witch doin' up there?"
He padded up the narrow stairs, each creak of the wood like a gunshot to his sharpened hearing. He pressed open the attic door—
—and found her kneeling in a halo of sunlight, surrounded by green. Plants everywhere. Pots, vines, herbs, flowers—like a whole damn jungle tucked under the roof.
And Storm was talking to them. Not chanting. Not praying. Talking.
Logan blinked. "...Darlin', did you lose your brains in the last fight, or am I seein' this right? You havin' a chat with the begonias?"
Storm didn't even flinch. She stroked a leaf between her fingers and smiled faintly. "It is none of your concern, brute. These are my children. They have missed my voice."
Logan snorted smoke through his nose. "Hate to break it to ya, Ro, but if they start talkin' back, I'm torchin' this whole attic."
He bit down on the cigar, flicking open his lighter.
A sudden gale whooshed through the room, nearly knocking him flat. The lighter flew out of his hand, clattering against the far wall.
Storm rose to her full height, eyes flashing white for a heartbeat. "NOT in here. I will not have my plants poisoned by your filthy smoke!"
Logan staggered back, hands up. "Alright, alright! Don't fry me, I was just lookin' for a quiet puff!"
Storm swept past him, her cloak brushing his shoulder. She shoved him through the doorway with one finger. "Go stink up the yard, Wolverine. Leave the attic to the green and the light."
Logan grumbled, picking his cigar off the floor. "Talkin' to weeds. Whole damn world's gone nuts."
Storm knelt back down among her plants, brushing soil from her hands, her voice low again, tender. "Do not mind him, little ones. He knows nothing of life."
The door creaked shut.
---
Down the hall, another door clicked.
Nightcrawler leaned back in his chair, tail flicking lazily, phone cradled between shoulder and ear. His fangs gleamed in the light from the window, a grin stretching wide as he purred into the receiver.
"Ja, Amanda… tonight, yes? At the theater, perhaps? A comedy, something light… wunderbar!"
He chuckled, voice dropping to a whisper. "Then it is a date, mein engel. I will be there before you even miss me."
The phone clicked as he hung up. He twirled it in his fingers, eyes sparkling. "Ach, love is in the air!"
He vanished in a puff of brimstone—reappearing in Colossus' room.
The big Russian sat at his desk, bent over a piece of paper. His brow furrowed, pencil gripped like a weapon. Crumpled pages lay in a pile at his feet.
Nightcrawler peeked over his shoulder. "A letter? To your family?"
Colossus jolted, blushing. He tried to shield the page with one massive hand. "Da. To my sister, Illyana. It is… difficult, finding the words."
Kurt clapped him on the back, tail curling around his chair. "Then let me distract you! A double date—me and Amanda, you and… any girl of your choosing! The night is young, mein freund, and the city waits!"
Colossus sighed, shaking his head. "I am sorry, Kurt. I have already promised Banshee and Moira to go with them for picnic. Perhaps another time."
Nightcrawler threw his arms wide, melodramatic. "A picnic? Bah! You choose potato salad over romance?"
Colossus chuckled quietly, turning back to his paper. "Some of us write with hearts, some with hands. Go enjoy your date, Kurt. I will enjoy the sun."
Nightcrawler huffed, tail flicking, then vanished in another puff of brimstone, muttering about "hopeless romantics with too much bread."
---
And somewhere else in the mansion, the Phoenix stirred.
Jean Grey sat at her parents' side, the weight of their questions pressing harder than any alien crystal. Scott Summers watched from across the hall, visor glowing faintly, wondering how he'd ever find the right words for her.
The mansion breathed. For one day, no battles. Just voices. Just lives.