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Dahlia

Brookside’s the kind of small town where everything just moves a little slower.

The downtown streets are lined with old brick buildings that look like they’ve been around forever, their faded fronts whispering stories you don’t hear every day.

The sidewalks are cobbled, winding past family-run shops—Whitaker’s, Henry’s antique bookstore; The Corner Brew, a cozy café with chipped porcelain cups; and Wildflower and Vine, a flower shop that’s always bursting with fresh blooms. Tall oaks and maples shade the narrow streets, their leaves rustling softly whenever the breeze kicks up.

Right in the center is the town square, with a simple stone fountain, a few benches, and a small playground where locals hang out and kids run wild.

Just beyond that, the river winds under a worn stone bridge—a quiet little spot to get away from it all.

It’s exactly the kind of place where everyone knows your name, and every face feels strangely familiar.

I never thought I’d end up here—until I inherited Aunt Miriam’s tiny cottage off Maple Street, along with a small fortune tucked away in some dusty old family trust. The cottage is small—just two bedrooms, a cozy living room with peeling paint, and a porch that’s seen better days.

But that inheritance gave me a fresh start.

Aunt Miriam was always quiet, full of stories and little treasures.

I’d never visited Brookside, yet somehow, I felt pulled here.

With no close family left and just enough money to lean on, I packed up my life and moved, hoping the slower pace and that little house might help me figure out where I really belong.

After a lot of hard work, I turned that tiny, out-of-the-way cottage into a home. Now it’s full of potted plants, books, crystals, and all the little things that make me happy. You can tell it’s loved.

As I walk down the street toward the café, Thea falls into step beside me.

“So, Henry told me you couldn’t keep today a secret,” I say, shooting her a playful glare.

She groans dramatically. “Look, Dahl—I cannot say no to cute old men. No matter how mean I try to be, they’re one of my weaknesses.”

I didn’t honestly believe Thea had any weaknesses. Like Henry said, she gave off serious vampire hunter vibes—always in boots, always with a knife somewhere on her body, and that cold-eyed stare that could make grown men forget how to speak.

Not to mention, she works at an office building with way too much security for a simple data entry job like she claims.

I mean, who needs fingerprint scanners and passcodes just to clock in for Excel?

I’d asked her once. She gave me a smile that said drop it , and I—like a coward with excellent self-preservation instincts—did exactly that.

I laugh and slide an arm around her waist. “You’re fine. He actually gave me a really sweet present.” I lift my chin to show off the new necklace.

Thea leans in, inspecting it. “Cute. Meanwhile, I’m just buying you lunch. I think ol’ Henry’s getting soft in his golden years.”

Thea’s a born-and-raised Brooksider, though you’d never guess it.

With her dark wardrobe, combat boots, and half-shaved, half-braided hair, she sticks out in this cheerful little town like a raven in a flock of cardinals.

We met when I found out that Thea had thought Sunny was a stray and had been feeding him on the side.

Between her surprise snacks and the food I was already giving him, the little traitor managed to pack on five extra pounds before I even noticed.

She was stunned when I offered friendship instead of demanding an apology.

She acts tough, but don’t let her fool you—she loves our Disney marathons. She’s my ride or die. I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

The Corner Brew smells like cinnamon, espresso, and something vaguely nutty—probably the seasonal muffin of the week. Thea and I snag our usual window seat, a tiny round table that wobbles unless you wedge a folded napkin under one leg. It’s unofficially ours.

She picks at a pumpkin scone while I wrap both hands around my latte for warmth.

“So,” she says between bites, “how’s it feel to be another year older and officially the weirdest witch in town?”

I snort into my cup. “Wow. Thank you for that glowing endorsement.”

“I mean it with love,” she says, grinning. “The kind you reserve for haunted dolls and aggressive houseplants.”

“I don’t have aggressive houseplants.”

“You literally named your rabbit Oleander.”

“He’s a rabbit, not a ficus,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Besides, he’s misunderstood.”

Thea raises a brow. “He bit my ankle last week.”

“Yeah, he does that when he likes people.”

She leans back, sipping her black coffee like it’s fuel. “So. Are we pretending it’s just a cute vintage necklace and not screaming cursed energy?”

I glance down at the locket Henry gave me, the metal warm against my skin. “I don’t know. It’s weird. I got this... déjà vu feeling when I put it on. But I’m probably just being dramatic. It’s my birthday—I’m allowed some theatrics.”

She sets her cup down, eyes narrowing. “Okay, but if that thing starts whispering Latin at 3 a.m., I’m out. I love you, but I draw the line at demonic possession.”

I smile. “Deal. You’ll be the first to know.”

Thea taps her nails against the ceramic mug. “Good. Because I already Googled how to do an exorcism with zero magical talent, and it mostly involves yelling.”

“Perfect. You’ll scare the ghost right out of me.”

She smirks. “Damn right.”

Our lunch date ends far too soon for me. We linger in the café until the last of our drinks go cold and the afternoon sun starts to slip behind the trees. Outside, Brookside has that lazy golden glow it gets in late autumn—everything softened, quieter.

As we step out, the air hits colder than before. I pull my cardigan tighter, the locket cool now against my chest. Thea walks me halfway home, her boots crunching over the sidewalk.

“You gonna do anything wild tonight?” she asks, elbowing me gently.

“Wild as in... herbal tea and a hot bath?”

She snorts. “Reckless.”

We part ways at the corner near the bakery. Thea gives me a mock salute. “Text me if the necklace tries to eat your soul.”

“Promise.”

The rest of the walk is peaceful, the kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones. A few porch lights flicker on. The wind tugs playfully at my scarf.

When I get home, the cottage greets me like an old friend—warm light through the windows, the comforting scent of rosemary, and something sweet from the kitchen. Oleander thumps his foot from inside his hutch like he’s been personally offended by my absence.

I set my keys in the little ceramic bowl by the door, shrug off my sweater and scarf, and stand there for a moment, fingers brushing the locket again.

It hums faintly under my touch.

Not loud. Not scary. Just... there.

Watching.

I head into the kitchen to kick off my wild birthday celebration—by making tea, obviously. I grab the kettle and fill it with tap water, setting it on the stove to boil while I pull out a handful of calming herbs to add to my tea strainer.

That’s when Sunny finally decides to grace me with his presence, weaving his orange body lazily between my legs like I’ve been gone for days. He lets out a drawn-out meow—the kind that clearly says my food bowl is tragically empty and this is your fault.

Sighing with a smile, I pause my tea prep and open the cabinet, pulling out a can of wet food. As soon as he hears the click of the lid, his meows grow more insistent.

I bend down to grab his bowl, but the moment he catches sight of the locket around my neck, something shifts.

He hisses.

A sharp, startled sound that echoes off the kitchen tile.

Before I can say anything, he bolts—his claws scrambling for traction on the hardwood floor as he disappears down the hall.

I blink after him, confused.

“Sunny?” I call, following slowly. “It’s just me.”

But he’s gone.

No tail poking around the corner. No curious eyes peeking from behind a doorway. He doesn’t answer.

Strange.

My thoughts flick back to Thea’s comment about the locket having “screaming cursed energy.” Demonically possessed, she’d joked.

A chill skates down my spine.

Nope. We’re not doing this today. Not today, Satan.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat. The locket sat there, humming faintly beneath my skin. Like it recognized me.

I didn’t know much about magic—not real magic, not the kind that bit back—but sometimes I got feelings. Weird little tugs in my chest. A pressure behind my eyes when I held certain stones too long. Aunt Miriam used to say it was intuition, but sometimes it felt… older than that.

I brushed the thought away. Probably just nerves. Or hormones. Or leftover anxiety from that time I ate an entire wheel of brie at 2 a.m.

I march to the bathroom, flick on the light, and stand in front of the mirror. With a determined breath, I reach up to unhook the clasp of the necklace.

It won’t budge.

Frowning, I try again, tugging a little harder. Still nothing. The clasp refuses to give.

“Seriously?” I mutter, spinning the chain around so I can get a better look. I dig my nails in, trying to pry it open. Nothing.

Growing more frustrated, I grab the chain and attempt to snap it. All I manage to do is dent the skin on my palm and scrape the side of my neck.

“Fuck,” I hiss, rubbing the angry red mark that’s already starting to rise.

I stare at my reflection, heart thudding slightly faster now—not full-blown panic, but definitely in the what the hell is going on zone. The locket glints under the bathroom light, innocent as anything, like it isn’t actively trying to gaslight me into madness.

My reflection stares back at me: wide eyes, messy hair, faintly wild expression.

“Great,” I mutter. “I’m being outwitted by a piece of jewelry.”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the shrill whistle of the kettle.

“Jesus,” I mutter, heart thudding as I scramble out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

I yank the kettle off the stove and set it aside, the steam curling into the air like ghostly fingers.

I pour the boiling water into my favorite mug—a handmade ceramic one with a soft, rainbow glaze that catches the light just right—and drop my tea strainer into the cup.

The herbs swirl and settle as I add a spoonful of honey, stirring slowly.

I try to focus on the warmth of the mug in my hands, the earthy scent rising with the steam, but my thoughts keep drifting.

Sunny’s hiss. His sudden bolt across the room. The fact that the necklace won’t come off.

I lower myself into the chair at the small kitchen table, the old wood creaking beneath me. With the mug steaming nearby, I reach up and begin to fidget with the locket again, running my fingers over its surface.

It’s warm. Warmer than it should be.

I pause. I haven’t even tried to open it yet.

I set my tea down and bring the locket into both hands. The metal is smooth beneath my fingertips, cool now, but still humming with an odd sense of presence, as if it’s holding its breath.

With a soft click, I find the seam.

I press my nail into the tiny groove and try to pry it open.

At first, it doesn’t budge.

Then, with a faint snick , the locket opens.

The moment the locket clicks open, a sudden rush of cold air spills out, swirling around me like a breath from another world. The silver edges shimmer and pulse, and before I can even pull back, a soft, low hum fills the room—a sound almost like a whispered chant just beneath hearing.

Then, a shape begins to form inside the hollow of the locket, as if shadows and light are weaving themselves into a figure.

The air thickens, charged with electricity and something ancient, and the faint outline sharpens into a handsome man—tall and lean, with dark, tousled hair that falls in loose waves around a strong, angular face framed by a mildly disheveled beard.

His beard is dark, thick, but not unseemly, giving him a rugged, weathered look that hints at both hardship and quiet strength.

His skin is pale but not sickly—more like marble kissed by moonlight. His eyes—deep and stormy gray—hold a turbulent intensity, flickering with pain, relief, and something dangerously raw.

The Man’s jaw is set beneath that beard, lips full and slightly chapped from years of silence, yet there’s an undeniable magnetism in his gaze, as if he’s both a warrior and a prisoner finally unbound.

Broad shoulders and a slender frame seem to shimmer with a subtle aura, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

He steps out as if emerging from water, dripping shadows that dissolve into the air around him.

His gaze locks with mine—intense, haunted, but alive.

For a moment, he’s still, as if disoriented by the release, the weight of years spent trapped pressing down on him.

He falls to his hands and knees on the tiled floor.

Then, his lips part in a rough breath, and he reaches out a hand, fingers curling with quiet urgency.

“I’m here,” he says, voice low and raw, “finally free.”

With a sharp curse and a yelp of surprise, I tumble backward out of my chair—and then everything goes black.