The snake had suffocated the Thinker hundreds of miles away. Her heart stood behind stone and masonry, many miles more. It crumbled and tumbled, the young Witch sat hugging her bare knees, hiding her face. Her frail hands, her nails clenched deep into her flesh, staining protein in the rust.

Potion Making

Behind the high countertop, the witch peers over to see if anyone stares back at her. No one. She continues making different potions, all doing the same thing but carrying different flavors. Satisfied, she sells the popular wares and dusts off the particulates sticking to her apron.