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I nod. “Apparently… I lost my magic when we lost Dad. And I’m a medium now.”

I expect Leo to look surprised. Ask questions. Something.

Instead, he scoffs. “Makes sense that you’re no good at it. You’re useless at everything.”

His ribbing makes me feel better, too. It would be strange if Leo didn’t make fun of me. After our father’s passing, I saw him cry for the first time—and the last. He’s not like Luke and me. Not so sensitive and soft. Maybe it’s being the older brother that made him that way.

I’ve never really valued that about him until now.

“I miss Dad,” I whisper. “Even though he was always bugging me—pushing me, I guess—I would give anything for him to be here, reminding me that I can do better.”

“It’s hard.” He nods slowly. “Maybe harder for you than Luke and me. When you lost him, you lost your magic too. I can’t imagine that.”

“Yeah…”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were struggling?” he asks, gentling his words. “We would have helped. Maybe this whole—this transition—it would have been easier.”

There’s no point in asking how he knows how bad I’m doing. The hair probably gives it away, but more importantly, witches can only change their magical practice under extreme circumstances, and his assumption is right. I have been struggling. Still am.

“There was a lot going on⁠—”

“Yeah, but you still fucking matter.” He narrows his eyes. “What you want matters. Do you want to leave Starbrook?”

I shake my head slowly.

“Then fight for it. Talk about it. Stop bottling shit up. There.” He gestures to my failed spell and blows out the candles. “That’s what Dad would say if he were here. No magic required.”

“Yeah… maybe it is.”

Our father would be a bit more eloquent. Leo’s words, rough around the edges and far too blunt, are closer to what I need right now. No coddling. No pity.

That night, I find Mom in her bedroom staring at the box of Dad’s old things. His favorite T-shirt, worn from too many lazy Sundays, is comfortable and soft. His sloppily written journal, impossible to decipher. The letters he wrote to her. The gifts he gave to her.

To my surprise, her room is still unmoved. The rug is still out, her bed still made. It seems she hasn’t started packing in here, at least.

“Sorry,” she whispers, closing the box.

I put my hand over hers. “It’s okay. It’s good to remember. I think that’s what stops people from becoming ghosts.”

“You would know about that these days, wouldn’t you?”

After everything, I haven’t told my mom about my new magic. I still haven’t even told her about losing my connection to the stars. But of course, she can tell I’ve changed. Motherly intuition, I suppose.

I nod, my eyes watering.

“That’s who you were talking to in your room?” she asks. “It was… the ghost?”

“It was.”

“And did she have anything to say?”

“She did.” I wet my lips and rock back on my heels. “I don’t know how it happened or when it happened, but I’m not like Dad anymore. This is what I do now. I… talk to ghosts, I guess. In theory.”

She cocks her head, her brow furrowing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner about my magic. I’m sorry that you had to hear about it only after I-I… had a breakdown, I guess.”

“Stop.” She pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry that you didn’t feel you could come to me about it. I know I could have handled his death better.”