Page 52 of Haunt Me, Maybe

An illusion guided by the mill? Different, but it couldn’t hurt. Closing my eyes, I sought the quiet impressions that had been pushing at me since we’d arrived. Rather than create an image from my mind, I asked the mill what it wanted to see. The answer came in fragments.

Wood polished smooth by generations of working hands. Sunlight slanting through intact windows. The low, rhythmic groan of the waterwheel turning, steady and sure. The smell of grain dust and river water and oil. Laughter and conversation echoing from somewhere higher up.

My magic stirred, curious instead of frantic, but it took a lot of concentration to keep it on its leash and form the details of this illusion.

“Easy,” Wes called, sounding far away. I hadn’t realized my breathing had gone shallow again. “Let it come to you.”

Relaxing into the images the mill threw at me, I allowed my mind to apply my magic to them. Once I felt ready, when I thought I had it right, I opened my eyes. The room hadn’t changed yet, but the air was dense and expectant. Fenn, Wes, and the mill watched me with rapt attention. I lifted my hands slowly, palms outward, and let my power flow forward in thin, careful strands.

It took all my will and a giant chunk of mental strength to keep it small. Not a flood. But a woven tapestry.

The stone walls glimmered first—just at the edges, like heat haze. Then came the rest. The cracks softened, and the moss faded. The broken beams knitted themselves back together, whole and strong; the timber was rich and dark as if freshly treated. With a gasp, the rest of my magic flew from me, and the illusion bloomed outward.

Light poured in where glass panes once were. The next layer was sound. The groan and soft squeak of a working waterwheel. Footsteps on the floor above and the calls from workers below. All the while, my magic synced with the images instead of spiraling. Fenn absorbed a little, kind of like trimming the edges so my illusion didn’t flare too bright, but he hadn’t corrected me yet.

Beautifully done, he breathed, eyes scanning every detail.

Emotion welled in my chest, sharp and aching. It didn’t come from me, but from the mill.

“This is what it looked like,” I whispered, tears flooding the corner of my eyes. “This is what it was.”

The mill leaned into it, and my illusion deepened, details sharpening in ways I couldn’t have done on my own. It was contributing to its own memory. A worktable appeared where I never consciously imagined one. The scent of warm bread and river air settled around us. For a heartbeat, I swore I saw movement at the edge of my vision—people who weren’t really here, more impressions than solid forms.

Wes stepped closer, awe clear on his face as he looked at me.

“Aven,” he said softly. “You’re not hiding your magic at all.”

I panicked for a split second until I realized what he meant. My magic wasn’t screaming. It was singing. The mill caught the song and held it. The ley lines carried it. Wes’s presence soothed it, and together we created…this.

“I don’t feel out of control,” I whispered, stunned.

“Because you aren’t. You and the mill are collaborating.”

The illusion held for several more breaths before I gently let it fade and spooled my magic back inside me. The room returned to stone and moss and broken wood, but it felt warmer now. Less lonely. Inside my chalk circle, I swayed, exhaustion catching up with me. Wes was there instantly with a hand hovering at my elbow, ready to catch me if I needed it.

That was more than enough for today, Fenn called, his nod of pride making me want to cry all over again.

I laughed weakly and leaned into the strength Wes offered. “I didn’t even mean to do that much.”

Swooping a hand around my lower back, Wes pulled me into his arms and lifted me from the floor. My knees felt a little weak, but they held my weight once he set my boots on the floorboards.

“I think that might be the best sign yet,” he said with a smile.

The mill creaked softly around us, its once overpowering presence now supple and content. I understood it completely. We both received a gift today; the mill, a glimpse of times less empty. And for me, I felt like I finally knew what my magic was meant to be. Not a weapon or a flare…but a bridge.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wes

I kept watch from my usual spot near the menu, half anchored to the beam above it, half present in the room. The café was busy for a weekday afternoon, and the weather was entirely to blame. Boots stamped through the door from the cold, and too many breaths fogged every time it opened. A cold front had settled over Amber Grove and it cut short our trips to the mill.

Still—we got in two more clean practices before it hit.

That was two more times where Aven didn’t fracture. Didn’t spike. Didn’t vanish inside herself. Fenn had been so smug about it. But I was proud.

I rode that quiet satisfaction now as I watched Aven move behind the counter. She was relaxed. Her magic was low and contained, like a fire banked properly for once, instead of threatening to leap the hearth. She laughed at something Briony said, and the café brightened, enjoying her presence.

As she wiped down the counter, sleeves rolled up like she belonged here, some guy I didn’t recognize leaned a little too far forward to talk to her. He was subtle, but that was the worst part. He didn’t actually do anything wrong—only rested on his elbows, eyes persistent and staring longer than necessary.