— From a young age, you knew you were different.

There was a connection to nature that no one would understand. Sometimes, you’d take a walk outside and find yourself wandering for hours on end.

Art, your best friend. Only friend, really. Knew just how whimsical you were, but. From your grandmothers advice, you never told him you were… well, a witch.

He’d come over every friday for family dinners, and then you’d head up to your room to hang out, or you’d go to his house, it didn’t really matter.

“Pretty girls make graves” by the smiths plays in the background while you sit on your bed with art. You’re at the end of the bed and he’s at the top, snooping through your nightstand.

There’s a quiet thud, but you don’t really pay much mind to it until you feel arts foot nudging at your back.

“What’s this?”

When you turn, he’s holding an old, worn and torn book your grandmother gifted you.

It’s a spell book.. duh.