There is panic in young Wanda's eyes when Istredd admits that there is not much that he can do for her brother, but it is good that he takes charge. It is good that he holds tight to her hand and yanks her out of the metaphorical realm of delusion, of her magic trying to keep her safe. This pain she lives with is cyclical—it never truly disappears, and Wanda is just one bad day away from reliving everything again and again.

His hold on her, both mental and physical, keeps her from fluctuating back into the dense platitudes of her magic. Wanda as a child is no more, and as they find themselves landing back inside her house within the Horizon, in the cold and dreary plant nursery, seemingly devoid of any colors brighter than toned-down grays, the surge of lived-in memories bounce from her to him, through their empathic bond.

The tight squeeze of Pietro's hand in her own. Glances between the two that speak their words without saying them. The comfort of his presence and his arms wrapping around her, keeping her safe. A world that's lost it all. Immeasurable pain as she looks down at his body on a slab, his eyes lifeless. How desperately she clung to him, how cold he felt, how he never raised his hands to brush her tears away.

Wanda gasps, feeling her lungs constricting, trying to breathe in. She hears Istredd's apology, she feels the coldness of the memory ripped from her, but she also feels the warmth of his arms around her. She clings tightly to him, painfully aware that no matter how much others hold her and try to comfort her, it will never be Pietro. Not ever again. Not Vision, not her boys.

She is always fighting her grief, never giving herself enough time to properly work through it.

Tears still streak her face, a sob caught in her throat, as she starts pulling back.

"I have to fix it."

Her magic, is what she means. Never a moment to properly process what she feels.