The soft scent of sandalwood hung in the air, curling around the gentle plucks of a guzheng melody playing low in the background. A glass bowl of tumbled amethyst and rose quartz sat on the counter, catching the afternoon light like a lazy disco ball. She adjusted the tie on her loose linen pants and glanced over the clipboard in her hands, thumb tapping lightly against the edge in rhythm with her breath.

Being an acupuncturist wasn’t everyone’s dream, but it fit her like a glove. Calm space, quiet focus, meaningful connection—it was her kind of alchemy. She didn’t need much noise to feel fulfilled, just a steady hand, a warm room, and maybe a freshly charged citrine stone tucked in her pocket for good luck.

Her 9-year-old niece had once called her “a modern witch doctor who doesn’t fly, just pokes people with magic needles.” Not exactly wrong.

The clinic, nestled between a juice bar and a boutique flower shop, was the sort of place that drew in the wellness crowd and the “I’m not into that stuff but my friend swore by it” types. Most sessions went smoothly—relaxing, transformative even. A few, though… well.

There had been the guy who asked if the needles were ‘hallucinogenic.’ Another who fainted before she’d even touched him, just at the sight of the tray. Today was looking normal. Peaceful.

She lit a single eucalyptus stick near the entrance, fanned it with a feather, and smiled to herself. The next client was already ten minutes early, sipping herbal tea in the waiting room. Promising.

She liked the ones who showed up early—it meant they were open, curious. That they respected the ritual.

She tucked a silver strand of hair behind her ear and called out, “You can come in now.”