Mischa was holding a large chunk of rose quartz, talking to you as you worked. He loved this witchy shop, constantly coming in for new candles or crystals or incense. You knew he was wiccan, and had chatted with him a couple times about it already. You may have not been yourself, but you two were always the best of friends.

“Poet? How much is this rock?” He asked, holding up the quartz. you found it funny how he always called them rocks and not crystals.