Sir watches all of it from above, tail flicking lazily like he has opinions about everything and intends to keep most of them to himself, at least for now.
For a moment, it feels right. Complete in a way I didn’t know I was searching for.
I try not to think too hard about the lack of turnout, about the fact that the shop should be more crowded than this for a grand reopening, that there should be people I don’t know filling the spaces between familiar faces.
People pass by the window outside. They slow down, their steps faltering. They look in, and I can see curiosity written clearly on their faces, can see the moment they register what this place is, who owns it now.
Then they keep walking, like their asses are on fire, like the threshold itself might burn them.
I try to keep up conversations, chatting with Bea and Zane, with Lin and Toni who are still bickering about who is opening the cafe in the morning, with Maceo’s sister who tells me embarrassing stories about him as a teenager. I try my hardest to ignore the feeling that something is off, that the energy outside the shop doesn’t match the energy inside it, that there’s a disconnect I can’t quite name but can definitely feel.
At first, I tell myself it’s nothing. Maybe I didn’t give the town enough notice, didn’t advertise properly, didn’t make it clear that this was happening today. Maybe they’re curious but can’t commit to stopping by right this moment, maybe they have other obligations, other places to be.
Then I observe the same wary behavior again, and again. People looking in with interest that dies the moment they remember something, the moment something shifts behind their eyes. People who slow down and then speed up, who meet my eyes through the glass and then quickly look away like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t.
The shift is subtle, but it’s there, threading through the warmth of the room like something colder trying to take hold, trying to poison what should be a celebration.
I set my cup down on the counter with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the relative quiet, and excuse myself from the group before I can talk myself out of it, before I can convince myself it’s fine and I’m overreacting.
“Keisha,” Ezra says quietly behind me, his voice carrying a note of warning that I pretend not to hear.
“I’ll be right back,” I answer, already reaching for the handle, already pushing the door open.
The bell chimes softly as I step outside, the cooler air hitting my skin just enough to sharpen my focus, to clear away some of the warmth and replace it with clarity.
A man slows a few feet down the street, his steps faltering as he glances back toward the shop like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t have, like I’ve caught him in the middle of avoiding me.
“Hey,” I call out, keeping my tone light and friendly, non-threatening. “You want to come in and see what I’ve done with the place? Everyone is welcome.”
He hesitates, and that tells me everything I need to know. That pause, that moment where he’s clearly weighing options, clearly deciding whether it’s worth the risk.
“I—” He shifts on his feet, weight moving from one leg to the other, glancing back toward the shop again before lowering his voice like he’s worried someone might overhear. “We were advised to stay away.”
My stomach churns with nerves and anticipation, because I knew something was wrong, knew there was a reason the street felt emptier than it should, but hearing it confirmed is different from suspecting it.
“Advised by who?” I ask him, stepping closer but not close enough to crowd him, keeping my body language open and non-threatening.
“The mayor,” he says, like that should explain everything, like those two words carry enough weight to justify the absence of half the town. “Said it might not be. . . safe. That you’re working with things you don’t fully understand yet.” He pauses, looking uncomfortable, then adds quietly, “You are a magicless Witch. Unstable.”
There it is.
The words land like stones, heavy and deliberate, and settle into my chest even as I keep my expression carefully neutral.
I let out a slow breath, keeping my expression steady even as irritation flickers under the surface, hot and sharp, even as I want to march down to the town hall and have words with my dear aunt that are decidedly not family-friendly.
“Do I look unsafe to you?” I ask, spreading my hands slightly, letting him see me clearly. “Unstable?”
He studies me for a second, longer this time, really looking at me instead of at whatever idea of me he’s been carrying around based on secondhand information and fear-mongering.
“No,” he admits, something shifting in his expression, uncertainty giving way to sheepishness. “Of course you don’t. I’ve seen you around town these past few weeks. I don’t believe that for a second. But Mayor Thorne?—”
“Then come inside,” I say simply, not letting him finish, not giving him room to talk himself back into fear. “See for yourself.”
He hesitates again, and I can see the war playing out across his face, the conflict between what he’s been told and what he’s seeing with his own eyes.
Then he nods, something decisive settling into his posture. “I’ll come right back. Let me grab my wife.”
I smile and wave him off as he turns and leaves, watching him disappear around the corner with more purpose in his stride than he had before.
