Page 3

DELILAH

D elilah had only been back in Celestial Pines for a day and a half, and already her heart ached like she’d walked barefoot through broken memories.

The town looked the same on the outside—cobblestone paths lined with ivy-wrapped lanterns, shop signs hand-painted with whimsical flair, and that ever-present mist curling through the air like the breath of some ancient sleeping creature.

But magic didn’t shimmer here like it used to.

It wobbled. Fizzled. Like someone had put a wet blanket over a hearthfire.

And Wren? Her grandmother looked more like a fading portrait than the force of nature she once was.

By the time she had gotten there the day before, her grandmother had fallen asleep, so Delilah had left her there to rest while she settled in.

Now, they needed to talk about what was happening.

To her, the Whispering Woods, everything.

Delilah pushed open the warped wooden door of Moonshadow Apothecary , the brass bell above the entrance letting out a warble rather than a chime. She frowned. The enchantment was off.

Inside, the scent hit her first: lavender, sage, and something sharper beneath—rot. A note of decay hidden under the usual bouquet of drying herbs.

“Wren?” Delilah called, stepping across the crooked floorboards. They creaked like they recognized her and weren’t quite sure if they forgave her yet.

“I’m in the back, sugar plum,” came the answer, thin and papery.

Delilah’s throat tightened.

Wren Moonstone wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

She found her grandmother seated in her favorite rocking chair near the back hearth, a fox curled asleep in her lap. Thistle’s flame-colored ears flicked at Delilah’s approach but didn’t stir.

“Sweet roots, you came,” Wren said, smiling up at her.

Delilah tried to smile back but couldn’t stop the sting in her eyes. “I told you if you summoned me with a binding charm again, I’d put nettles in your bathwater.”

Wren chuckled, but the sound turned into a cough that rattled in her chest.

Delilah dropped to her knees beside her and took one of the older woman’s hands in hers. The skin was cool and dry—too dry—and the pulse beneath her fingers thready.

“You look like hell,” she whispered.

“And you’ve still got the bedside manner of a snapping turtle.” Wren gave her hand a weak squeeze. “Welcome home, baby girl.”

Delilah bit her lip and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her grandmother’s frail frame. Wren’s bones felt like bundled twigs wrapped in a floral shawl.

“I missed you,” Delilah said, softer now.

Wren patted her back. “You came back. That’s what matters.”

The hearth popped behind them, sending a puff of smoke into the air. Thistle lifted his head, eyes glowing faintly as he stared at something invisible to Delilah.

“You’ve been slipping,” Delilah said, pulling back. “Tell me everything.”

Wren sighed. “It started subtle. My herbs stopped listening first—couldn’t grow them past a crescent moon. Then the tinctures began turning cloudy even before I sealed them. My connection to the earth… it’s like a door’s been shut, and I’m knockin’, but no one’s home.”

Delilah's brow furrowed. “The Whispering Woods?”

“Mm-hmm,” Wren murmured. “Something foul is soaking into the roots. And the spirits? Restless. They murmur all night. You felt it, didn’t you?”

Delilah nodded slowly. “In the café… and walking through town. The air’s wrong.”

Wren gestured weakly toward the workbench. “Take a look at the moonvine batch. It bloomed during the wrong phase last week. That ain't never happened.”

Delilah stood and crossed the room, her shoes echoing in the quiet. The jars on the shelves shimmered faintly—some more than others. A few were completely dim.

She paused at the moonvine jar. The petals inside were soft gray, not the deep silver they should’ve been under this moon.

She touched the glass. Cold. Too cold.

“Holy roots…” she muttered.

“Now you see it,” Wren called. “Magic’s limping, not dancing.”

Delilah spun slowly, taking it all in—the drying racks that sagged, the chalk runes on the floor that had blurred, the candle beside the altar that sputtered even without wind. Something was draining the shop… and Wren.

“We need to get you re-rooted. Something’s corrupted your tether to the land.”

“I’ve tried,” Wren said gently. “But my magic’s tangled in this. It ain't personal—it’s systemic. You can feel it outside too, can’t you? The trees… they grieve.”

Delilah swallowed hard. “This isn’t just sickness. It’s spiritual. Elemental.”

Wren nodded once. “I need your help, sugar. You’ve got a stronger pull now than I do. You’re fresh. Unbroken.”

Delilah wanted to protest—wanted to scream that she was broken—but the words caught in her throat.

“I’m here,” she said instead.

Wren smiled like that was enough.

Later that afternoon, Delilah cleaned the apothecary’s front counter while Wren rested. The shop responded to her touch like it remembered her—the candles flickered brighter, the shelves straightened a little on their own, and even the floorboards creaked less spitefully.

She reached for a stack of cinnamon bark when the door creaked open.

“Closed for?—”

But her voice faltered when she saw who stood in the doorway.

Rollo.

Again.

This time, he looked hesitant, one hand braced against the frame like he expected to be hexed.

“I came to see Wren,” he said.

“She’s resting,” Delilah answered curtly. “And this place isn’t a petting zoo for old regrets.”

Rollo winced. “That’s fair.”

Delilah exhaled slowly. “Why are you really here?”

He stepped inside, careful not to cross the salt line at the threshold. “Something’s off with the woods. The sanctuary animals are restless. They won’t sleep. The phoenix pup’s already started molting again—it shouldn’t be.”

Delilah’s posture softened just a fraction. “You think it’s tied to the forest?”

“I think it’s tied to everything ,” he said. “Wren, the woods, the tea going bitter at The Sip… it’s all bleeding together.”

She stared at him. “You been paying attention, huh?”

His voice dropped. “Only to what matters.”

Delilah looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’ll talk to my grandmother,” she said instead. “But she’s barely strong enough to string a charm, let alone fix the whole forest.”

Rollo hesitated, his expression unreadable. “If there’s anything I can do?—”

“There isn’t,” she cut in, voice clipped. “You’ve got your sanctuary, I’ve got this shop. Let’s not confuse history with obligation.”

A beat passed. Then he nodded once, quiet. “Take care of her.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Just turned and left, the bell over the door giving a soft, almost apologetic chime as it swung shut behind him.

Delilah exhaled, long and low.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Eight years.

And he just walks in, all broad shoulders and mountain silence, like nothing had changed. Except… maybe something had. An animal sanctuary? Since when? She never pictured him with baby creatures and bandages—she’d only known him with walls and warning signs.

Maybe he did change.

She shook her head hard.

“Nope,” she told herself. “Not going there.”

But still, her fingers wouldn’t stop tracing the edge of the counter where he’d stood—like the wood still held his warmth.