The morning mist lingered low across the quiet fields of Munchkinland, draping the gravestones in a gentle veil of dew. Birds chirped in soft song, as if the land itself was whispering secrets to the sky. Elphaba stood alone among the tombstones, a bouquet of crimson poppy flowers clutched to her chest, their petals vivid against her dark cloak.
She hadn't been here in years.
The grave sat at the top of a soft hill, beneath the watchful shade of a twisted quoxwood tree. There were three stones—simple, weathered, and side by side.
Frex. Melena. Nessarose.
Her family.
She stepped toward Nessa's grave and knelt, brushing a few stray leaves from the base of the tombstone. The words etched into the stone were clean and elegant:
Nessarose Thropp
Beloved Sister. Devout Soul. Governor of Munchkinland.
Elphaba gently laid the bouquet across the base of the stone. The poppies seemed to glow in the morning light.
"Hi, Nessa," she said softly.
The breeze stirred the leaves around her boots.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to come."
She swallowed hard and sat back on her heels.
"A lot's happened since you… since I lost you. Oz has changed. We've rebuilt it. We made it something better. Ozma's back on the throne—the real throne—and she's already healed so much. The Animals can speak again. Dr. Dillamond has his classroom back." She smiled, just a little. "You always liked him."
She ran her fingers over the edge of the gravestone.
"And the Winkies—they asked me to be their leader. I said yes. I'm not a governor like you were, but I'm trying. They're good people. Kind. I think you would've liked them."
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"You'd love it, Nessa. You'd love everything. I wish you could see it. I wish you were here."
She sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind hum softly through the quoxwood's branches. She imagined Nessa in that quiet—in her wheelchair beside her, holding hands like they did when they were little girls.
"I should head back soon," Elphaba said, rising to her feet. "The Winkies need me. And you know me—I never liked to keep anyone waiting."
She turned slowly, taking one last look at the stone.
But then she stopped.
Glancing back, her voice low and thoughtful, she said, "You know… Father always said you were the better daughter. He was right."
The words hung in the air for a moment—raw, but without bitterness. Not anymore. Just truth, spoken in love.
And with that, Elphaba turned toward the horizon, the morning sun casting long shadows behind her. Her broom lay waiting by the old path. She picked it up, took one last look at the graves, and nodded to the wind.
Then she soared into the sky, the Witch of the West—no longer hiding, no longer feared.
Just remembered.