A spell to open hearts gently. Use with caution. Let the intention be known before the knot is tied.
It’s harmless. Or it’s supposed to be. More of a whisper than a push. A nudge for honesty. I read the incantation under my breath, fingertips brushing the small charm knot I’ve looped with red thread and a sliver of rowan bark. The air shivers around my hands, like the moment right before you feel goosebumps rise. Then it stills.
I carry the knot in my pocket for the rest of the afternoon, telling myself it’s just curiosity. Just research. Not anything so stupid as hope.
Hardin showsup near twilight again, as if the trees themselves are done with their secrets for the day and handed him back to me.
“I finished the rest of the rail,” he says, not bothering with hello. “Didn’t want it leaning like that through the frost.”
“You’re handy like a man who hates things falling apart.”
He nods. “Because I am.”
I invite him in for tea. He hesitates again, like yesterday’s quiet moment still echoes louder than he wants to admit. But he follows me inside.
The cottage smells like clove and warm cedar from the sachets I’ve hidden in the corners, and something sweeter from the muffins Mari begged for earlier and then promptly forgot toeat. Hardin ducks slightly as he passes under the kitchen beam. He always does. He’s too tall for this place, too wide for the narrow doors, and yet something about him fits here in a way I can’t quite put into words.
I pour the tea. I slide the little charm knot into my hand and speak softly beneath my breath, a whisper between words, just like the book said.
The moment stretches.
He doesn’t flinch.
But his eyes find mine and hold there longer than they should.
“You smell like something burning,” he says, not accusing, just observant.
“It’s clove. Maybe the candle,” I lie, and he lets me.
We sit by the window, the only light coming from the hearth where the flames curl low and lazy, casting everything in amber. The silence between us is thicker than before, but not heavy. Just full.
“I’ve been reading,” I say after a while. “Learning what I can.”
He nods. “I figured.”
“You don’t think I should stop?”
“I think it’s too late to pretend you’re not part of this.”
I tuck my legs beneath me and sip slowly. “Do you ever miss who you were before?”
He doesn't answer at first, and I think maybe he won’t. But then he sets his mug down with a quiet click and looks at the fire instead of me.
“There was never a before,” he says. “Just smaller versions of the same man. Fewer scars. Same bones.”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s true.”
I lean forward slightly, letting my fingers skim the side of his hand where it rests against the table. His skin is warm, rough,scarred in a way that speaks of blade and weather and time, and I don’t know what makes me do it, but I let my hand settle over his.
His breath catches, almost imperceptibly.
His eyes meet mine.
And for a moment, everything narrows to this one point of gravity, this quiet corner of the world where something real could happen if we let it.
But I pull back.
