Chapter 6 Nothing Stays Buried #2
Grief and rage collided in me. The wound of losing Reenie was still fresh. Her laugh still echoed in my ears. Her last hug still imprinted on my skin, the way she’d held my face in her hands and told me, “You’re going to do something extraordinary, Mel-bug. Don’t let anyone make you small.”
“She saw people,” I hissed, voice shaking. “She gave a damn. She made a home out of nothing. She didn’t need a corner office or quarterly reports to prove she mattered.”
“She made you believe in nothing,” Candace countered. “And I’ve spent years trying to undo that damage.”
The words landed like a slap.
I shoved my chair back, the scrape loud enough to turn heads at nearby tables. My eyes burned with unshed tears.
“She made me believe in myself,” I said, voice breaking. “Which is more than you’ve ever done.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“And you’re acting as if you can still control me.”
For a heartbeat, we just stared; two women bound by blood and nothing else, strung tight across years of unspoken resentment and love twisted into obligation.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“It’s raining,” Candace snapped.
“Good. Maybe it’ll wash some of this off me.”
I grabbed my bag and stormed out, ignoring her calls. Reenie’s voice rang in my ear:
You are not hers to command.
The icy rain hit me the moment I stepped outside.
Within seconds, my sweater was soaked through, my hair plastered to my face.
I didn’t care. I walked with clenched fists and burning cheeks, every footstep echoing the argument with Candace.
But beneath the anger was something else, something that felt almost like relief.
Thunder cracked overhead, the rain coming down harder. I ducked under an awning to catch my breath, wiping water from my eyes.
Where am I even going?
Not back to the dorm. I didn’t want to face Luz’s questions, and I felt too wired and exhausted.
I stepped back out into the rain and started walking, aimlessly at first. My feet carried me down unfamiliar streets. The buildings here were older, with cracked brick, fogged windows, and forgotten corners.
And then I spotted a narrow shop tucked between two shuttered storefronts, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. A faded awning with a hanging wooden sign that creaked in the wind.
Thistle and Ink – Rare older, seventies maybe, with silver hair wound into a thick braid that draped over one shoulder.
She wore layers of wool and linen that seemed to belong to a different century, and her hands were marked with old scars.
Her eyes were amber-gold, sharp and knowing in a way that made my skin prickle.
“I’m looking for something on Greek mythology,” I said, though my voice came out smaller than I intended.
Her mouth curved; not quite a smile, but close. “Of course you are.”
She didn’t elaborate, just gestured toward the back of the shop with one hand.
“Myth and Memory. Third shelf from the left.” Her gaze lingered on me, and I had the unsettling sense that she could see more than just a soaked college student. “Though I suspect you’re not looking for mythology at all.”
My stomach dropped. How does she—
“What do you mean?”
“You’re looking for yourself, dear.” She returned to her ledger, tracing a line with one finger. “The book you need will find you. It always does.”
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with my wet clothes. But the certainty in her voice made my pulse quicken. I wanted to ask how she knew, wanted to demand an explanation, but my throat had gone tight.
I nodded and moved deeper into the shop, every instinct screaming at me to leave. This is wrong. This woman knows something.
The air grew heavier the further back I went, thick with the scent of old paper and something that reminded me of my dreams. Earth, smoke, and time itself.
I glanced back toward the counter, but the shopkeeper wasn’t watching me anymore—or at least, she wasn’t looking directly at me. Somehow, that felt worse.
I found the shelf labeled “Myth & Memory.” My fingers ran along the cracked spines, drawn deeper, until—
A book slid forward off the shelf on its own.
I jumped back as it hit the floor with a soft thud, landing at my feet like an offering.
Did she do that? I whipped around, searching for the shopkeeper. She was still at the counter, her back to me now. She made that happen. She had to have. Books didn’t just fall perfectly at my feet.
I knelt and picked it up. It was wrapped in waxed cloth, no title visible. My fingertips tingled as I unwrapped the cloth. The book beneath was leather-bound, edges worn smooth with age. I opened it carefully.
Handwritten pages, the ink browned with time, the cursive looping and jagged and desperate. My breath caught in my throat.
My handwriting stared back at me. Identical down to the loops and rightward tilt. This was the second time in a week, my thoughts drifting to the book from the library.
I flipped to the first page, finding a name:
Marion Hale Salem, 1692
The moment my eyes touched the name, the world tilted.
No. Not now. I can’t—
But my body didn’t listen. The bookshop’s warm air turned cold. The smell of old paper became acrid smoke. My chest tightened, and I tried to let go of the book, but my fingers wouldn’t release it.
I blinked, and I wasn’t in the bookshop anymore.
I was barefoot in mud, rough hemp ropes biting into my wrists. Men’s voices shouted scripture, twisted into weapons. The crowd jeered. Behind me, wooden gallows rose against a gray sky. A noose swayed in the wind.
My hands—ink-stained, strong from grinding herbs, marked by healing and prayers older than the church. That was enough. That made me a witch.
Rough hands shoved me forward. The noose dropped over my head, rope scraping against my throat. Words died on my tongue. My feet found the edge of the platform.
The crowd’s roar grew louder, and then the world dropped away—