Page 1 of Little Witch

Chapter One

There was a magic to mornings in Autumn's Hollow that never quite faded, no matter how many years I'd lived here. The world woke slowly, breathing itself into color one inhale at a time. Today should've been no different.

The streets outside were still and quiet, the early light barely filtering through the maple trees arched over Main Street, casting soft shadows on the cobblestones. The leaves had turned fully gold last week, bursts of crimson and burnt orange scattered through the canopy, like someone had thrown the sun across the ground and left it to smolder. It made the whole town look stitched together from warm, glowing hues — the kind that made me not want to blink, in case I missed a second of it.

Only I always blinked. Because I was a whore for pretty things, but still, unfortunately, human.

Inside Halloway's Hearth, the bakery my family had run for generations, the air was thick with cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove — the only scent that had ever mattered to me. It wrapped around me and made me want to sing halloween songs and play in leaves like I was a kid again.

Okay. I had played in leaves this morning. But like... that was a reasonable thing to do.

Everyone would have done it, had they been in my place.

The bakery had always felt like a second skin. A place where time slowed while the rest of the world kept moving without me. Our shelves held pastries that looked like prize winning entries: pumpkin scones drizzled in spiced glaze, apple turnovers with crusts gone perfectly golden, gingerbread cut into jack-o'-lanterns with crooked, grinning faces. Everything we baked carried a touch of the season, a dash of love, a sprinkle of something that had always felt like magic.

Today, that comfort didn't reach the uneasy thing curled low in my stomach.

Nothing did. Even the shot of whiskey in my coffee earlier on.

The ovens hummed steady behind me as I checked the batch of cinnamon rolls I'd prepped at dawn, dough risen soft and golden, tops kissed with sugar. I breathed the scent in, trying to ground myself in the routine. But as I set the tray down, my mind slipped backward — to the dream.

The Whispering Pines.

Everyone in Autumn's Hollow knew the woods. The ones that wrapped around the whole town, like they were as much a cage as a shield. Not the kind of place you wandered into after dark. Not if you valued your soul.

And also your shoes. The woods were always muddy.

The stories went back further than anyone could remember. Some said the forest was cursed, its trees carrying old magic — the kind too wild for human hands. Others said the woods were alive in ways people didn't say out loud. The whispers that gave the forest its name weren't wind, they'd tell you, leaning in close, voices dropping. The trees told you things. Things you weren't meant to know.

I'd heard it a thousand times. Knew magic existed in our town and beyond...

Never believed it.

Until now.

In the dream, the trees had pulsed like a heartbeat, breathing in time with my breaths. The leaves burned red and gold overhead, casting everything below in a light that didn't belong to this world. And the whispers — God, they'd been so clear. A soft, persistent murmur, curling around me, pulling me deeper, toward a massive oak in the northernmost part of the forest. Bark rough and dark. Roots thick and gnarled, digging into the earth like claws. Leaves made of gold and orange light flickering and singing, a siren call dragging me toward them.

Then the voices had said my name.

Amber.

It was the sound of it, sharp enough to raise every hair on my arms, that had thrown me awake — heart slamming, orange sheets twisted around my legs. And even now, standing in the safety of the bakery's kitchen, the feeling hadn't let go. Like the dream had followed me out of sleep. And the trees were still out there. Still calling.

The voice in the back of my head said their claws were already in me, and nothing was getting them back out.

I shook the thought off and tied a pumpkin-print apron around my waist, the same ritual I'd had since I was small enough to beg my dad to let me skip school and stay here instead. The only place that had ever felt like home.

Before he vanished.

And I grew up, realized life was shitty, and that baking could help me pretend it wasn't for an hour or two.

The leaf-shaped clock ticked steadily toward seven. Opening time. The same opening time we'd had since I was a little girl. i'd used to hate it but now... I was a fan.

The earlier I got to work. The fast I got out of the house.

Away from my... my step-brother.

I hadn't even heard the front door yet when the back one banged open — that particular scrape of boots that meant Orias had let himself in like he owned the place, which, unfortunately for me, he practically did these days.