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I check the time on my phone as I stomp downstairs.

“Can’t say for long,” I say by way of greeting, slipping into the kitchen.

Unlike the upstairs, the downstairs has changed. It’s trendy, midcentury modern, with plants, warm wood, and funky rugs. In the center of the table, there’s a sprawling breakfast: croissants, scrambled eggs, homemade waffles, and turkey bacon. Pops is watching his cholesterol.

Even a witch can’t escape the inevitability of death.

My fathers are calmly drinking their coffee, huddled together at one end of our large, rectangular oak table—handmade by my woodworking dad. They’re getting up there in age. Dad’s hair is slowly turning from blond to white, while Pops’ hair is salt and pepper, dark and curly, a lot like mine.

If there’s anyone who makes me believe in love, it’s them and their whispered secrets, still stuck in their own world after thirty-five years of marriage.

I relax along with them, sitting at the other end of the table and pouring myself a cup of coffee.

But there’s one person who will never let me know peace.

Farrah Poole: my baby sister, love witch extraordinaire, and a massive pain in my ass.

“Did you hear?” She’s in the seat right next to me, but she still feels the need to lean in as if she has a secret.

I don’t bother asking what she’s talking about. Farrah is always coming to me with gossip. I’m happy to listen when she’s telling me about fashion, crochet, her magic—things that actually matter. Her passions.

Gossip can’t be a passion, can it?

“No.” Finally, after what already feels like a long morning, I take a bite of my food.

“There’s a new family in town.” She leans away and crosses one leg over the other, lifting an orange mug to her lips.

“Huh.”

Dad chimes in. “She’s right. I saw the moving trucks. Pretty big family, by the looks of it⁠—”

My fathers exchange a look.

I set my croissant down with a thud, the crumbs splattering over the plate and my father’s olive-colored tablecloth. “What aren’t you telling me?”

It’s a wonder Farrah hasn’t already blurted it out. At first, I thought it was to torture me, hold information over my head, but the energy in the room becomes wary. Farrah grimaces.

Pops crosses the room and puts a hand on my shoulder. After a moment of somber silence, he cracks a smile. “You have to eat more than a croissant for breakfast. What were you thinking? Not in the mood for scrambled eggs? I can make an omelet. We got goat cheese from the farmer’s market, and it’s to die for.”

“Omelet’s fine,” I grumble.

If I were back at my place, I’d probably skip breakfast altogether. I’m more of a lunch guy, and whatever’s going on in Starbrook makes my stomach twist.

I love this town in a weird way, but the strangeness of it all can be too much for me. There’s probably something weird about this new family. Maybe they’re fae—rare to find in Maine—or maybe they’re aliens—never before spotted, but I’m sure they exist. Everything exists.

Or maybe they’re rude. That’s fine. I can stay out of their way, as long as they don’t have any business at the town hall or in the coven.

Pops goes to work making my omelet, and Dad opens his newspaper. Whenever I look at Pops, I see my future. My hair is already starting to go gray—probably from stress—and he gave me his height and bright blue eyes.

I can’t say the same for Farrah’s twin brother, Val. Both look a lot like their surrogate: lighter hair, a little better at tanning, and vivid green eyes. Typical blond Barbies, though Farrah loves to tell me her hair is actually mousy brown. Whatever that means.

And then there’s Auggie, who got everything from Dad. Hair like straw, dark brown eyes, but she’s a few inches shorter than Farrah.

I’m happy to be part of such a big, loving family, except on days like today. Why can’t they let me eat my croissant in peace? I think Auggie is my favorite today, now that she’s not around to bother me.

Farrah, as easily distracted as ever, rambles to Dad about her many jobs, and after a little while, Pops places the omelet in front of me. I’m quick to finish eating, all too aware of the passing of time.

It haunts me.