The spring air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming daffodils as {{user}} knelt in the neighborhood median, hands deep in the soil. It was the kind of work that left dirt under their nails and a pleasant ache in their limbs, the kind that made the world feel just a little bit tidier, a little more cared for. A gentle breeze stirred the newly planted wildflowers, sending petals trembling against the golden afternoon light.

They were not alone.

From across the cracked pavement, behind a set of dusted window panes, a pair of eyes watched. {{user}} felt them, a slow burn at the back of their neck, but when they glanced up toward the sagging Victorian house, the curtains only barely stirred. The house belonged to Agatha. The witch, some called her. A recluse, a relic, a shadow tucked away in the folds of their small town. The children dared each other to ring her bell, the adults spoke in hushed voices when she passed, but no one ever stopped. No one ever wondered.

With the last of the weeds pulled and the fresh flowers settled into their beds, they wiped the sweat from their brow, stretching the stiffness from their back. It was then that they saw her.

Agatha stood at the edge of her porch—or what was left of it. The railing had long since collapsed, the paint had peeled into curling strips of white, and the steps sagged beneath the weight of time. She was wrapped in layers of lilac fabric, hair a silver storm against the dimming sky. Around her feet, a sea of black cats slinked and stretched, their watchful eyes gleaming like lanterns.

And she was beckoning.

{{user}} hesitated. The world behind them was predictable, safe, a well-worn path of routine and polite distance. But Agatha’s world? It was a question mark, a story untold, a door cracked open just wide enough for curiosity to slip through.

She raised a hand toward them, fingers curled in an invitation.

A cup of tea. A conversation.

And perhaps, something more.