[Hawthorne]
I was three drinks in when my great-grandmother swept into the tavern, her sudden appearance quieting every laugh and sob with the sheer power of her presence. Even the music seemed to disappear as the door closed behind her and she made a direct path to the bar where I sat surrounded by other lovesick witches mourning their losses over cheap beer.
“Come with me child,” the old witch commanded in a voice barely above a whisper, as she leaned in. “If you want to help her, you’ll come. You aren’t doing either one of you any good moping around here.”
She barely masks her disappointment as she looks me up and down. I've seen that look on her face before, every time that I disappoint her. Now is no different except for the rushed intensity of her movements. Her glare has the pow
