Page 3 of Impawssible Magic

I pocket the moonstone charm without thinking about it—it’s still warm, still humming—and head for the door.

The bell chimes as I leave.

Behind me, another bell rings. The inner door, the one Grandmother Peach vanished through. But when I glance back, nobody’s there.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of minor victories. Two customers actually come in—a young witch looking for a study focus charm and an older gentleman who spends twenty minutes examining my crystal selection before buying a piece of black tourmaline “for his wife’s garden.”

I make exactly thirty-seven gold.

By the time evening settles over Mistvale, the mist has thickened to a soft golden haze that turns the streetlights into fuzzy halos. I lock the front door, flip the sign to Closed, and retreat to my workbench in the back room.

Custom work. That’s where the real money is. Anyone can sell crystals, but crafting personalized protection charms? That takes skill, training, and the kind of intuitive magic that can’t be taught.

It also takes a stable magical core, which I currently don’t have, but details.

The back room is my sanctuary. Copper bowls and silver wire coils organized on shelves. Quartz points sorted by size in labeled boxes. My grandmother’s tools—the ones I managed to grab before everything went to hell—hanging on a pegboard where I can reach them without thinking. This is where the real work happens. Where my hands and magic merge.

I lay out my supplies. Silver wire. Small quartz points. A copper bowl for charging. The order came in yesterday through the town’s magical message system—a local shop owner wants a protection charm for their front door to ward off ill intent without being obvious about it.

Simple enough. Should take me maybe two hours.

I reach for my magic.

It comes. Slower than it should, thinner than it should, but it comes. I feel it rise from somewhere deep in my chest, spreading down my arms, warming my fingertips. The quartz points begin to glow softly as I channel energy into them, each one accepting the charge like a vessel being filled with light.

This is what I’m good at. What I’ve always been good at. Feeling what a charm needs to be, shaping it with intention and will until it becomes exactly what it’s meant to be.

The work absorbs me. Wire twists under my fingers. Crystals align. Magic flows—unsteady, yes, flickering like a candle in a draft, but flowing. I’m so focused that I don’t notice the mist growing thicker outside. Don’t notice the shadows lengthening as the fairy lights dim.

Don’t notice the shape outside my window until it moves.

My head snaps up.

There—just for a second—a silhouette against the mist. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Not quite human-shaped, the proportions slightly off in a way I can’t pinpoint.

My pulse kicks into overdrive. My half-finished charm pulses with uncontrolled energy, responding to my sudden spike of fear. Breathe. Ground. Pull the magic back before I accidentally blast a hole in my workbench.

The locals mention that sometimes the mist can show you things that aren’t there.

But.

But I’ve been running for two years. Hiding. Looking over my shoulder every damn day, waiting for them to find me.

I set down the charm and walk to the window, pressing my face close to the glass. The street outside is empty. Cobblestones gleaming with moisture. Fairy lights from the shop across the way creating little pools of warmth in the gray.

Nothing there.

Still.

I check every ward in the shop. Twice. They’re holding, weak as they are, and nothing’s triggered them. If someone had crossed my threshold with bad intentions, I’d know.

The rose quartz on the counter seems to agree.

But I don’t go back to my workbench. Instead, I climb the narrow stairs to my apartment above the shop—really just one room with a tiny bathroom and a kitchenette, but it’s mine—and I lock that door too.

The moonstone charm Grandmother Peach gave me is still in my pocket. I pull it out, turn it over in my hands. It’s definitely magical, but not in any way I recognize. Protective, yes. But there’s more woven into it.

The dream comes like it always does.