Isla
The ash still smoldered in the fireplace, a soft plume of smoke curling toward the ceiling like a final breath. The room smelled of burnt heartwood, resinous and sharp, mingling with the lingering herbs that lined the shelves—remnants of Mrs. Hawthorne’s craft. Her absence clung to the walls like a shadow. The house no longer felt like a refuge. It felt like a memory.
I stood by the window, staring through the streaked glass into the creeping dusk. The trees swayed, whispering. Maybe warning. The air felt thick with something unsaid, as if the forest beyond could sense what we had done… or what we were about to do.
“We need the salt next,” I said, my voice low.
Raul didn’t turn. “I know.”
I walked toward the table where the book lay open—Mrs. Hawthorne’s notes, drawings, scrawled
