Page 4 of Impawssible Magic

Shadow in my lap, purring. The warmth of his fur under my fingers, that beautiful steady rhythm that made everything easier. His golden eyes looking up at me with what I thought was devotion.

Then the door crashing open. Figures in dark cloaks. Spells flying, wards shattering, chaos and screaming and⁠—

Shadow. Walking toward them. Not fleeing, not fighting.

Walking. Deliberately. Choosing.

And his eyes when he looked back at me. Not golden anymore. Flat. Empty. Like I was nothing. Like nine years of partnership meant absolutely nothing.

I wake up gasping, tangled in sheets that are damp with sweat, my magic crackling around me in uncontrolled bursts that make the fairy lights downstairs flicker.

Three AM. Mist pressing against the windows like it wants to come inside.

“Great. Fantastic. Love this for me.”

I don’t go back to sleep. Instead, I pull on a robe and pad downstairs to make tea I don’t really want, just to keep my hands busy.

The shop is quiet. Crystals glinting in the faint light from the street. The half-finished charm on my workbench, waiting for me to find the focus to complete it.

I stand at the window, cradling my tea, watching the mist drift and curl through the empty streets of Mistvale.

Somewhere out there, whatever I saw—or thought I saw—is either sleeping, watching, hunting, or none of the above.

But the wards are holding. The doors are locked. And tomorrow is another day—another chance to build a new life, to prove that a shattered past doesn’t have to mean a shattered future.

Fresh start. Sort of.

The mist turns gold for a moment, just a flicker, and then settles back to silver.

I drain my tea and go back to bed.

Tomorrow is another day.

Morning comes dreary and damp, like every morning since I arrived. The mist is lighter today, more translucent, and when I open the shop at nine, actual sunlight filters through to make the crystals sparkle.

I take it as a good omen.

The citrine by the register seems to agree.

Three customers before noon. One buys a small selenite wand, one just browses, and the third—a witch with wild curly hair and an anxious energy that makes my wards twitch—asks if I do custom work.

“Protection charms, focusing aids, basic wards.” I lean against the counter. “Nothing too complicated, but I can⁠—”

“Do you have a familiar?”

I go very still.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, sorry, that came out wrong.” She’s blushing, wringing her hands. “I just—I’m new here too, and everyone keeps talking about the Registry and familiars and I don’t have one and I wasn’t sure if—I’m Sakura, by the way, I’m opening a studio across the square, energy work mostly, and I just⁠—”

She stops. Takes a breath. The lights in my shop flicker—her magic responding to her anxiety, not mine.

“I don’t have one either.” The words come out gentler than I intend. “So.”

Her shoulders drop about three inches with relief. “Oh thank gods. I thought I was the only one.”

We end up talking for an hour.