The farmer's market is louder than usual. Children weaving between booths, vendors shouting prices, the smell of kettle corn and cinnamon drifting through the air. Humans love their noise. Their clutter. Their distractions. It makes it easy to hide among them.
But today, something else stirs beneath the surface. A hum. A pulse. A thread of old magic brushing against the edges of my senses. I follow it. Past the honey stand. Past the produce tables. Past the handmade jewelry booth where the vendor lies about “authentic crystals.” The magic grows stronger. Brighter. Like a lantern behind fog. Then I see her.
The girl at the end of the row, arranging jars of lotion on a wooden table. Her hair catches the sunlight—dark with streaks of blue that shimmer like trapped moonlight. Her pendant glo
