Whimper.

Sniffle. Sniffle.

“Mmm… cough, cough… whimper, whimper…”

Sniffle. Sniffle.

“I… I’m a proper… a witch… and a human dared to threaten me…”

Winnie squatted on the floor, face buried in her hands, lashes fluttering in her palms like moth wings trapped in lamplight.

Hedi kept both hands deep in her pockets, her face holding a dense quiet, a hush pressed into bone, not the blankness of an empty mind.

She thought nothing and stood still, a statue under low weather.

Tight cheeks and a set jaw corded into that look, clean lines held like string pulled taut across a drum.

Nothing looked swollen; her face’s curves sat in crisp harmony, a blade’s edge smoothed by rain.

The strange part was that the harmony didn’t come from slack muscle; it poured from her bones, carving a subtle depth like shadow cut by noon sun.

“Cry it out, then get to work. Brew me a potion I’ll accept,” Hedi said, her tone clipped like a foreman squeezing hours from a worker.

Winnie hid pain and shame under trembling hands, emotions folding in like storm birds pressed to a branch.

Her low, drawn-out wailing drifted through the shop, a chill thread, like a vengeful maiden from a horror film whose grief pierced air and needled the ear.

She went upstairs still covering her face; her steps on the stairs drowned under the wet sob’s tide.

The stairwell chandelier cast a long slanting shadow at her back, following her like a leash, shivering on its own.

“Are we… are we being too harsh?” Selina rubbed her palms, uneasy, like a sparrow scrubbing seed hulls.

“Crocodile tears. She’s just a thief spooked by her own guilt.”

“Because of the Shattered City?”

Hedi shook her head and spoke with a dry edge. “Even if she spreads the Shattered City story, no one will buy it. What scares her is the secret buried here.”

“What secret?”

“What else—grab you, skin you, string your nerves on a rack.”

Selina’s eyes widened; she stared up at Hedi like a cute little hamster and pouted, “That’s a fabricated plotline!”

“To most, ‘witch’ equals ‘immoral.’ You can call me biased… I’m going up to watch her brew. You stay and rest.”

Hedi took the stairs two at a time, a quick rhythm like a hawk cutting wind.

On the second floor, chandeliers spliced from crystal and glass bottles hung low, each bottle holding a powder that shimmered like fine ash under electric glare.

Oak wall panels were lined with plant specimens, leaves pinned flat like lost pages from a forest.

Rows of jars stood tidy as soldiers, each holding a skull, a clear gem, or a root twisted into odd, dreaming shapes.

From a half-open door, smoke rolled out in dreamy colors, two scents woven into one thread:

The rich dairy lift of fresh cream meeting heat, and the layered herb chorus—cinnamon’s bite, clove’s warmth, rosemary’s clean green—each a silken hook tugging at the lungs.

Hedi pushed the wooden door; the hinge gave a steady creak, like a branch bending under frost.

Inside, firelight swayed; a living flame lit half the room and stamped Winnie’s silhouette onto the wall like a brand.

She faced the cauldron, perched on a small stool polished by years, spooning up a dish—milky, viscous, glossy as rain on stone.

“Why aren’t you brewing?” Hedi leaned on the doorframe, voice smooth, hiding the itch beneath.

“The cauldron’s loaded with water. It needs a slow boil.”

“Mm… good. Not started yet.”

“Afraid I’ll toss something… strange?”

“I just want to watch the process.”

Winnie raised her spoon. “Mmm~~ want some?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t even pretend!”

Hedi lifted the silver spoon, steady as moonlight on steel, touched the surface, and tasted that cool-warm weave like spring under a sun patch.

She let it melt on her tongue; a soft milk note rose, with a fine, shy herb shadow drifting behind.

The simple dish opened into layers: a clean sweetness first, then full cream, then a faint spice gliding through the aftertaste like smoke under a door.

“Not afraid I’ll poison you?” Winnie scraped her stool and scowled. “Drug you, watch you drool and snot on the floor!”

“Don’t offer if you don’t want to share.”

“You humans do this with strangers, right? ‘Want some?’ ‘No, no.’ ‘Hungry?’ ‘Not yet.’ That stuff.”

“It’s exhausting to hear.”

“Human society… is a guild of pretenders in stiff collars.”

Hedi smiled without comment and watched the cauldron water swell, bubbles breaking like pearls under a thin skin.

Then she asked, “What herbs for a memory potion?”

“Leaves, roots, petals, seeds, dew, stone marrow, spring water.” Winnie murmured and dipped her chin. “My herbs…”

“I’ll pay.”

“If you don’t, I’ll drag you into a self-destruct.”

“You’re pretty used to human society.”

Winnie went quiet, then curled her lip. “I’m a moderate. Witches have to eat.”

“Will other witches kill me for what you just said?”

“More or less… they’re… almost all gone…”

Hedi crossed her arms and watched Winnie wash the root, slice fine, sprinkle a few seeds, and pour in the spring water.

The cauldron thrummed; boiling water turned faintly luminous, a blue glow like foxfire in a well.

“No new witches being born?” Hedi asked.

“I won’t fall for a human. Just thinking about it makes me gag—”

“Don’t puke into the pot.”

“When this is done, we’re square?”

Hedi nodded.

Winnie added the leaves, stirred three times clockwise, let them sink, then dropped in petals and pinched the fire with magic like a hand tightening a valve.

Leaf and petal began to loosen, releasing a thick fragrance that walked the room like a warm animal.

The brew shifted from blue to deep purple, tiny foams rising and blinking into blurred shapes like faces in rain.

Hedi bent closer, curious, and Winnie swatted her. “You’ll startle it!”

“Startle who?”

“These petals carry the memory of being plucked, and the memory of leaving the stem.”

“So it feels pain?”

“It’s life, isn’t it.”

Winnie checked the color, then sifted stone marrow powder into the cauldron and stirred, raising the flame and tipping in dew like stars dropped into ink.

The instant the powder hit, the brew went clear, glass-bright; when the dew melted, the liquid writhed into a vortex, then calmed, turning half-transparent gold like honey held to light.

“Keep it on for five hours.” Winnie sat back on her stool. “Reminder: memory can’t be controlled.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever comes, comes.”

“Can I say something to steer it?”

“No use.”

Hedi moved to the window and watched the black clouds shrink into a corner like a dog sent out in rain. “I want to test it here.”

“The tester will fall asleep. Waking time is unknown.”

“If they sleep too long—”

“If someone yells them awake, the memory snaps!” Winnie pointed the spoon at Hedi, warning sharp as a knife tap. “They’ll slowly forget now, and then the before.”

“That’s too dangerous.”

“Every potion has a poison in its tail.”

A tiny muffled sound rose from Hedi’s throat, a sigh pressed flat like a leaf under glass.

Winnie kept eating, then tossed in, cool as ash, “You can’t recall dreams. Those aren’t memory.”

“Selina will drink it. On average, how long does the sleep last?”

“Seven hours.”

Hedi repeated it under her breath, seven hours rolling in her mind like a slow bell.