Hanna’s voice floated from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, her green dress now rumpled from the night, curls loose around her face, and no shoes in sight.
“You’re barefoot,” I said.
She grinned. “Observation skills, ten out of ten.”
“I thought you left with the others.”
It had been like this for months now. After the first time she’d discovered my hidden sanctuary. No one knew except us. It was like a secret we promised each other never to share without saying the words.
“I did. Then I didn’t.” She stepped inside, eyes wandering over the scattered tools and sketches. “I don’t know why, but there’s times when I feel like if I don’t come here, I won’t be able to sleep.”
“It’s not much.”
“It’s wonderful,” she said simply. “Smells like work and imagination.”
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever described me like that before. Work, yes. Imagination? That was new.
Ribbon croaked loudly, hopping from his perch toward her. Hanna bent down without hesitation, offering a hand. The toad—a massive, furry creature easily the size of a hound—blinked, then croaked again and nuzzled against her fingers.
“Traitor,” I muttered. “You weren’t supposed to like anyone except me.”
Hanna laughed softly. “He has good instincts.”
“Or terrible ones.”
She stood again, moving closer to the workbench. Her eyes found a small wooden carving I’d abandoned—a rough figure of an orc warrior holding something fragile in his hands. I didn’t even remember starting it.
“When did you make this? I didn’t see this the last time I was here,” she asked.
“Started to. Didn’t know what it was supposed to be.”
She traced the figure’s outline with one finger. “Maybe it’s waiting for you to figure that out.”
Something in her tone—quiet, sure—hit deeper than I expected. I leaned against the bench, trying to shake it off, as her eyes flared with a green light that made me frown. Her fingertips too. Right where she was touching the wood. “You shouldn’t be up here this late. What if I hadn’t been here?”
“I’ll risk it,” she said. “You’re much better company than my own.”
I huffed. “That’s a low bar.”
She smiled. “Maybe. But I’m not leaving yet.”
For a long moment, we just stood there—the sound of the city below, the wind through the rafters, and Ribbon makingcontented toad noises at our feet.
It should’ve been simple. A witch, an orc, a quiet night. But nothing about her was simple. She filled the space without trying—like light slipping through a crack in a door I didn’t realize I’d closed years ago.
“Savla?” she said softly.
“Yeah?”
She hesitated, then smiled that small, knowing smile again. “You can scowl all you want. It doesn’t hide how kind you are.”
I looked away before she could see what that did to me. “You should go before I start charging rent.”
Hanna laughed, walking backward toward the door. “Fine, grumpy. But I’ll be back. Artists are terrible at scowling when they’re inspired.”
When she disappeared down the stairs, the workshop felt too quiet. I turned back to the carving on my bench.
And, without really knowing why, I started to work on it again.
