She tilts her head. “That’s waiting on me.”
I grin. “Then I guess I am.”
She laughs softly, her eyes drifting to the photo frames on the dresser. “You were always the steady one,” she says. “Even when you were little. I used to find you fixing your toys with tape instead of crying when they broke.”
I shrug. “Guess I never outgrew it.”
Her gaze lingers, warm and wistful. “I’m proud of you, Dorian. I don’t say that enough.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom.”
She reaches for my hand, her grip light but firm. “I know I drive you crazy sometimes. But having you here, it helps more than you know.”
I squeeze her hand gently. “It helps me too.”
For a while, we just sit there, the soft hum of the TV filling the space. Snow keeps falling outside, steady as breath.
Later, after I’ve cleaned up and she’s resting again, I return to my desk. My laptop blinks with a reminder:Community Hall Site Review—Pending Approval.
I open the file, scanning through the renderings, the cost projections, the marketing blurbs. Words like “heritage,” “renewal,” “hope for small-town revival.”
At least when I focus on work, I don’t have to worry so much about Mom… and the mess that my life feels like at the moment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Norah
The bell above Hazel& Vine chimes as I step inside, and the scent of dried lavender, pine resin, and sweet smoke wraps around me like a shawl. The shop is warm and dim, lit by amber lamps and rows of candles that flicker in mismatched jars.
Every shelf is stocked with colorful glass bottles filled with herbs, powders, tinctures, and teas. Bundles of sage and chamomile hang from the rafters, brushing the tops of my curls when I pass.
Miss Thea looks up from the counter, her silver hair twisted into a braid that glows against her deep green cardigan.
“You look pale, sweetheart.” Her voice is smooth as honey, threaded with concern. “Come in. Sit. I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you were fine.”
I wince, half laughing. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows what exhaustion smells like.” She gestures to the stool beside the counter. “Sit before you fall over.”
I do, setting my gloves beside a jar labeled “moonwort.” The wood under my palms feels cool, grounding. Thea moves withunhurried grace, her bracelets chiming softly as she gathers a few jars from the shelves.
The air hums faintly. Every time I’m here, I swear I can feel the energy of the place, like the walls are breathing in time with the forest outside town.
She pours steaming water into a ceramic mug painted with faded stars. “So,” she says, “tell me what’s going on in that pretty head before I start guessing.”
I let out a breath. “It’s the dreams again,” I admit. “They’re getting stronger. I wake up burning. Not just warm. It feels like my body’s gearing up for something it shouldn’t be.”
Her sharp eyes soften. “And you’ve been taking your medical suppressants?”
“Yes. Like clockwork. And your teas.”
“Describe the dreams.”
I hesitate, but she’s already watching me like she knows half of it already.
“They’re not normal dreams,” I say quietly. “It’s scent and touch and... instinct. Like I’m being called by someone. It’s familiar. The worst part is that when I wake up, I can still feel it. My pulse won’t slow down for hours.”
Miss Thea hums, unscrewing a small jar of crushed herbs that smell faintly of smoke and citrus. “Your body’s fighting itself, Norah. Suppressants are never foolproof, especially with emotions running high. You’ve been under stress, yes?”
