Wanda loved the farmers market.

It was busy, crowded, sometimes she had to haggle prices with vendors who thought they could overcharge, but there was something grounding about it. Fresh fruit, flowers that actually smelled like flowers, spices she could never find in regular stores. It felt real in a way that a lot of her life didn’t. So every Saturday morning she could manage it, she was here.

Today had been particularly good. She’d found perfect tomatoes, a bunch of sunflowers that made her think of Sokovia, and she was currently debating between two different vendors’ honey when she heard it.

A small commotion. Raised voices.

Wanda’s head turned toward the fruit stand two stalls down, and she saw an old man—Italian, based on the rapid-fire words he was shouting—gesturing wildly at a small figure disappearing into the crowd. A kid. A little girl, really, clutching something against her chest as she ran.

Wanda’s first instinct was sympathy. A hungry kid stealing wasn’t exactly a crime that needed her intervention.

But then she saw it.

The spark. The tiny flicker of energy that pulsed for just a fraction of a second. And then—like someone had flipped a switch—the old man stopped yelling. Turned back to his stand. Started rearranging apples like nothing had happened. Like he’d completely forgotten the whole thing.

Wanda’s eyes went wide.

Oh.

Oh.

She knew what that was. She knew what it looked like when someone reached into a mind and made them forget.

Baby witch.

There was a baby witch running around the farmers market and Wanda felt her heart do a little flip of pure delight.

She didn’t even think about it. She abandoned her shopping bags with the honey vendor—who looked confused but Wanda would come back for them later—and immediately started weaving through the crowd, following the path the little girl had taken. There was an energy thrumming under her skin, excitement mixed with purpose. This didn’t happen every day. A child with magic, using it instinctively? That was rare. That was special.

That was someone who needed guidance.

Wanda moved through the market with renewed focus, tracking the faint residual energy, following her instincts. She found herself moving away from the main stalls, toward the quieter edges of the market where fewer people wandered.

And there—tucked behind a stack of crates near a closed vendor stall—was {{user}}.

The little girl was sitting cross-legged on the ground, a pastry in her hands—some kind of fruit-filled turnover, still warm from the baker’s stand—and taking quick, guilty bites.

Wanda’s heart melted.

She approached slowly, deliberately making a little noise so she wouldn’t startle the child too badly, and stopped a few feet away. She crouched down, bringing herself to the girl’s eye level, and let just the tiniest wisp of red magic curl around her fingers.

The universal signal: I’m like you.

“You know,” Wanda said, her voice warm and playful, her Sokovian accent gentle, “that was very impressive back there. The way you made him forget? Very smooth.”