With All My Love, Elowen

With spring, summer, and now autumn behind me, and my mother knee-deep somewhere in her travels, I had grown used to making the morning walks to the river alone. Winter was never meant for fishing, but witches have always had ways around such inconveniences. Still, the cold bit sharper than usual this year. The river froze no matter how often I forced it otherwise, and the sky remained an endless, unbroken gray, as if the sun itself had been locked away behind a curtain of ice.

On my way to the river, I stopped. The willow stood just as it always had. For ten years, I had passed it with my eyes shut, breath held, feet moving faster than necessary, but today, for some reason, curiosity outweighed fear. How are we tied to you? I wondered. Are you alive in the way we are alive? Do you think? Do you see me?

Finally, I opened my eyes.

The willow and I met exactly where we had left off, as though neither of us had truly moved on. As if it had only been waiting for me to return when I was ready to listen again. Now facing the willow, nothing happened. There was no pull, no trembling. No racing heart… aside from the one I had worked myself into through anticipation. Its branches swayed in the wind, indifferent but familiar.

Sadness crept over me unexpectedly as I began to realize I had abandoned this place long ago. It was the sadness of something once safe becoming something I feared. I chose, in that moment, to believe my mother’s words. The willow was not dangerous, or at least not dangerous to me. For the first time in a decade, I stepped beneath the curtain of branches. Snow crunched beneath my boots as I lowered myself to the frozen ground and rested my back against the trunk.

The cold seeped through my clothes, but then I felt something else slowly spread across my body. Instead of the overwhelming force from years ago, it was something calmer; warmth. It felt like an embrace from someone I had not seen in a very long time. Is this what acceptance feels like? Is this… coming from the willow?

Then, as though to pull me back to reality, an unnatural chill swept through the forest, sharp enough to remind me where I sat. I laughed softly at myself while brushing snow from my skirts as I stood.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I murmured, feeling foolish for speaking to the tree like I was still a child and sincere all at once. “And the day after… just in case you can hear me.”

Over the last few months, I’d noticed the cold pressing harder, relentless and unyielding day after day. I began to suspect this winter was not born of nature alone. Seasons had always followed their rhythm here. Even as a child, I knew when spring would soften the soil and snowdrop flowers would emerge with their vibrant green stems against the white blanket of snow. This felt different. Almost like something had missed its cue… but that worry could wait. Today, I have a date with the library fireplace.

Once home, and empty-handed at that, I lit the hearth, changed into dry hand-knit clothes, and poured myself a large helping of ginger chamomile tea. I had no intention of searching for answers today. My only goal was comfort.

With the warmth of my teacup in one hand, I traced the spines of grimoire after grimoire with the fingertips of the other as I slowly paced around the room. Today was about me and me only. Having met with the willow after so long, it felt only right to reset. Rather than searching for something, I was trying to appreciate this place more fully.

The library seemed older than the rest of the manor. Built of stone, its walls held two tall windows that let in pale winter light. At night, it was illuminated only by candle flicker and the crackle of the fire. The dust in the air shimmered faintly, as though old enchantments from my ancestors had never quite faded.

And then I saw it: A book. One I had never seen before, which was impossible. I had read everything in this library.

I snatched it from the shelf and hurried over to settle onto the sofa I’d dragged closer to the fire when autumn first turned sharp. Mama would have probably scolded me for rearranging the furniture, but this was my house now. I sat there examining the outside of the book for several minutes, unable to believe I had never noticed it before. The scent of lavender filled the air as I opened it.

The handwriting caught my eye immediately; it was Grandma’s.

Emotion surged too quickly for me to stop and put the book down. Tears burned my eyes as I turned page after page. Every one was filled front and back with her thoughts. One corner was dog-eared. I wondered if it was intentional or simply an accident, as this was normally something she frowned upon. She thought it defaced the book, whereas I thought it helped mark important sections. She would have scolded me for that. I opened the book to the folded corner. To my surprise, tucked inside was a note. My hands shook as I unfolded it.

My darling Melia,

If you are reading this, then I am already beyond this world. Part of this journal was written for you, about you. I had your mother place my grimoires here for future generations, but from the moment you were born, I knew you were different. You noticed things long before you had words for them, and sometimes you spoke as though you were remembering rather than learning.

I wanted you to know what it was like to raise such an extraordinary young lady, but from a grandmother’s point of view. Everything I know, I have already taught you. Do not waste your time scouring my grimoires for answers I failed to find. My stories are the stories I already told you. Revisit them only when you feel lost.

But perhaps, within these pages, you will notice something I did not… There is one more thing. I have hidden it in one of your old hide-and-seek spots. The answers there may not be the ones you seek now, but they are the ones you have always wanted. Don’t tell your mother. It’s our little secret.

With all my love,

Elowen

I reread the letter twice. Then a third time. Wiping the tears from my face, I stood. If my grandmother wanted one last game, I would humor her. I searched everywhere I could still fit. First behind the old wicker rocking chair. Nothing. Then behind the drying herbs, inside the stair closet, beside the greenhouse door, even behind the green lace curtains in the dining room.

Nothing. It wasn’t like Grandma to mislead me. Frustration began to settle in. Then I quickly remembered as I ran back to the library. I was four or five years old when I found this place. I remember discovering it and thinking it would be the perfect hiding spot, especially since Mama and Grandmother knew all my other hiding places already. Mama had been dusting when I ran over and begged her for a quick game of hide-and-seek. She said no at first, but eventually relented after I promised not to leave the room.

Mama began counting. I crawled inside my new hiding spot, stacking the old journals back in front of the opening exactly as I had found them. Mama searched and searched but, for the first time, could not find me. Grandma heard the commotion from the next room of Mama frantically calling for me while I snickered away, convinced I was a master of hide-and-seek.

Grandma eventually had enough and started chanting an incantation. I remember seeing glowing orbs surround both me and the opening before she quickly pulled me out, scolding me and telling me never to do that again before sending me to apologize for frightening Mama.

I moved the now dusty, useless diaries aside, and there it was—the cubby in the wall. The space felt smaller than I remembered, but strangely familiar, like returning to a room from childhood that had never fully left my dreams. I squeezed inside, reaching for the note tucked just beyond my grasp, and that’s when I felt it; A draft.

Cool air brushed against my skin. This made no sense. The cubby led inward, deeper into the house, not toward the outside world. I crawled out, retrieved a candle, and returned as carefully as possible without setting the cobwebs ablaze.

That was when I saw a small stone door just ahead. It must have always been there, but I had never brought light inside before. I grabbed the note and decided I could only tackle one adventure at a time, and this situation was far more personal than whatever waited beyond that hidden door. Now sitting just outside the cubby, my heart racing, I unfolded the final message.

It held only a name and a place:

Rowan

The Alderwheel Workshop

Old Mill Path

Ferncross Village

For a long moment, I only stared at the piece of paper. The outside world had always felt distant, regardless of the times I visited with Grandma. Theoretical, even. Something that existed beyond stories rather than a place we belonged. But this was real. Finally there was a direction. A person outside of these cottage walls. It was a step beyond everything I had ever known.