PAINFUL MEMORIES ECHOED AROUND THE TUNNEL THAT WAS MORGAN'S LIFE. She collected them like macabre trinkets—taking up too much space in her brain. Her regrets were insurmountable; they dragged her down under the seas, nailed her to place and watched her flounder and drown. Morgan's past suffocated her.
Her life was one calamity after another, so she felt disconnected from reality when the calm after a storm occurred. Wanda was dead. Morgan was alone once again. The silence only added to the isolating atmosphere; all life had been sucked out of their once quaint cottage. While Wanda hadn't exactly been full of life throughout their relationship, her warmth was all Morgan needed—and now she didn't even have that.
Morgan traced the frame of the one photo they had together. She smiled softly, remembering the moment like it was yesterday. Wanda was reading a book full of old Sokovian fairytales—feeling nostalgic over the past—when Morgan placed her head on her stomach, tucked her feet under the sheets, and read some niche Dostoevsky novel to seem impressive to Wanda. Morgan had completely forgotten the words exchanged then, but the way they laughed would be immortalised now, and she wasn't letting go of the picture ever.
A book fell to the floor with a resounding thump, startling Morgan and revealing Stephen Strange. He was hesitant to reveal himself—despite his usual arrogance. "I'm sorry for your loss," he whispered.
"I wish you'd just left us alone," she replied meekly. She sighed at the way her voice sounded destroyed but mostly numb. She set the photo back in place.
Strange placed his hand on her shoulder, "You know I couldn't do that," his abrupt tone would have thrown Morgan off if she didn't agree with him. "When we first met, I thought it was you who was after America," he confided.
Morgan scoffed, "Why?"
He analysed her carefully, more specifically, the area around her. "I could sense death's presence on you," he admitted—Morgan couldn't work out what emotion he was displaying, it was some mix of ominous dread and. . . awe.
Eyes swiftly fell to the ground as Morgan sighed, "She's my mother." There was no point in lying, she had a feeling that if Strange wanted to know something, he would find out—whether she wanted him to or not.
Strange's eyes widened in confusion, "There's a lot to unpack there," it was clear he didn't expect that response—in fact, he struggled to comprehend it. How could a concept father a child? Her mother was more than just the grim reaper, she was death personified—in a bite-size portion easy for humans to understand. Her human appearance gave those who died peace of mind; though even then, death isn't supposed to be compassionate. Her mother was indiscriminate, taking and taking bodies and never giving back—that's where Morgan came in. At least that's where she thought she came in considering she's never actually resurrected anybody. Wanda would be by her side and not buried under a mountain if she could.
"Great chat," she finished. She clapped her hands together to signify she was finished talking to him. "We should resume this some other time. . . Going to have to get a raincheck, though. I have other places to be."
Strange shook his head, not believing her words. "Like where?"
Morgan shrugged. "Anywhere but here." She popped the frame's back off. It fell to the floor, but the photo of her and Wanda was safely tucked in her bra. Strange cocked an eyebrow, curiosity flashing in his eyes. "Goodbye, Stephen."
"Goodbye, Morgana," he replied.
Frozen in place, the woman shook with rage—no one's used her full name since. . . How did he even know? "It's just Morgan," she hissed.
"Right," he opened a portal with his slinger before leaving Morgan in silence. She was beginning to resent how quiet and hidden this place was.
