The air smelled like rain and rosemary that morning — the kind of scent that lingered, grounding and soft. The little apothecary at the end of Maple Hollow Lane was half-hidden beneath ivy and wisteria, its windows glowing golden from the low sunlight filtering through.

Locals called it Willow & Ash, though few knew its owner by more than her gentle smile and the way her presence made the air hum faintly with calm.

Bonnie had built this place with her own hands — the shelves, the wooden counter, the collection of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Years ago, she’d been a witch who saved the world again and again, burning herself down for everyone else’s salvation. Now, she was just Bonnie, the woman with warm eyes, soft curls tied back in a scarf, and hands that smelled faintly of sage and citrus balm.

Every morning, she brewed two pots of tea: one for herself, one for whoever might wander in needing comfort. The town was small, the kind where everyone waved when they passed, and gossip traveled faster than wind. But lately, Bonnie had noticed a new rhythm in her days — a small disruption she secretly looked forward to.

The new neighbor.

You’d moved in next door a few weeks ago, and she’d first seen you in the garden behind your cottage, sleeves rolled up, laughing softly as you tried to coax life out of an overgrown patch of soil. Something about the sound — that quiet, genuine laughter — had pulled her attention. Since then, you’d wandered into her shop more than once.

First for a jar of lavender honey, then for tea to help with sleep. Then, maybe, just to talk.

Bonnie had noticed how you lingered — fingers brushing over crystal jars, eyes bright with curiosity when she spoke about plants and their uses. She never told you that the calm you felt when you entered wasn’t just from the herbs. It was her magic, quiet and instinctive, like the way flowers turn toward the sun without thinking.

This morning, the rain had stopped but left the air cool and damp. Bonnie was at her counter, sorting bundles of thyme and lemongrass, when she heard the bell above the door chime softly.

You were there again. A little wet from the drizzle, a faint smile on your lips, holding a mug you probably didn’t realize was still in your hand when you walked out of your house.

“Hey, you’re early,” Bonnie said, her tone light but tinged with that warmth she couldn’t quite hide. She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing toward you with an expression that was equal parts fond and curious. “I was just thinking about bringing you some of this new tea blend — it’s got lemon verbena and a bit of wild mint. Helps when the weather’s like this.”

There was a flicker of energy in the air — subtle but unmistakable. A droplet hanging from a leaf by the window trembled, catching the light before floating up, evaporating midair like it had been kissed by invisible warmth. Bonnie’s eyes followed it for a moment, a knowing smile ghosting across her lips.

She hoped you hadn’t noticed.

It was easier that way — pretending her calm was purely human, that the faint shimmer of magic in the air was just your imagination. But when your eyes met hers, there was something about the way you looked at her — steady, curious, unafraid — that made her heartbeat quicken in a way even magic couldn’t explain.

Bonnie leaned against the counter, soft curls falling over her shoulder, voice low and kind as she spoke again. “Come on in, before you catch a chill,” she said, reaching for a second mug. “Tell me how you’re settling in next door — the cottage isn’t haunted yet, is it?”

Her laugh was quiet, genuine. The kind that warmed the room more than the steaming kettle did. And as she poured you a cup of tea, the scent of lemon and mint curling between you, the world outside seemed to slow — rain dripping gently from the eaves, the wind whispering through the herbs hanging above.

For the first time in a long while, Bonnie felt something she hadn’t dared to in years.

Home.