Mara rolled up her sleeves and set the copper bowl on the floor.

  She’d done this before. Hundreds of times. Maybe more. The bowl had the same shallow dents, the same warp along the rim where she’d dropped it during a storm that never made it past the tree line. She used to joke that it added character. Now, it just looked tired. Like everything else. The chalk still made the same dry scrape against the floorboards, though it left fainter lines than it used to. The runes didn’t glow. They hadn’t in months. Maybe years. But she drew them anyway, because that was what she remembered doing.

  Salt. A sliver of ash bark. Half a bay leaf. She could count the ingredients in her sleep. They used to be sacred. Now they felt like props.

  Three motions. A circle. A hum. Clap twice. Light the wick.

  It was a spell for tidying—a humble, useful thing. Not for defense, not for divination. Just to clean. To clear the air. To make a space feel like it belonged to someone. It used to bring a kind of warmth. That illusion of control. Now it was just ritual.

  She didn’t want the room to gleam. She just wanted it to stop pressing on her. Every object, every surface, felt like it was watching her deteriorate and politely pretending not to notice.

  The first time she cast it, she was seventeen. Careless and proud. The broom had swept half the room on its own. Her best friend had clapped and shouted like they’d conjured fire. That had been a good night. Or maybe she only thought so because she’d forgotten most of the others.

  Now, she sat cross-legged, alone, with fingers that shook when she wasn’t looking.

  The salt didn’t settle right. The ash bark curled in on itself. The bay leaf split at the stem. She knew these things didn’t matter. The spell wasn’t that delicate. But it still felt like a sign.

  She adjusted the circle. Redrew the third rune. Lit the wick.

  Spoke the words. Nothing happened. Not even the air shifted.

  It wasn’t failure. That would’ve meant resistance, pushback. This was worse. It was disinterest. A world that had stopped answering.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Mara’s mouth stayed open for a moment longer than necessary. Then she closed it. Pressed her hands into her thighs. Tried again.

  She spoke the words aloud this time. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—thin, worn, almost foreign.

  Clap. Clap.

  The wick trembled. Then settled. Still nothing.

  She swapped the bay leaf for sage. The sage for wax. A drop of honey. A crumb of bread. Her hands moved on their own. Trying to remember what intention felt like. No change.

  She stared at the bowl for a long time. Then stood, slowly. Bones stiff. Breath short.

  She used to know what this spell was for. Not just what it did—but why she needed it. She used to want her house to feel lived in. To feel *alive*. To be something more than a structure slowly rotting around her. She used to believe that magic could give her that.

  Now, even remembering what she used to want felt exhausting.

  She walked to the pantry. Opened the doors. Looked at rows of quiet jars. Things that had once answered to her. The cinnamon had collapsed into pale dust. The thyme was blackened. The salt refused to pour.

  She didn’t bother touching them.

  In the sitting room, the hearth lay cold. The ash hadn’t been swept since the owl left. That had been—what? Weeks? Months? Time didn’t pass properly in here anymore. It only lingered.

  The house made small noises. Shifting beams. Settling magic. Or maybe it was just decay.

  She wandered through it like a guest. Touched the frame of a cracked mirror. Looked through it. Saw only the back wall. Not her reflection. Not even the bowl.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen herself.

  She returned to the copper bowl. Not because she expected anything different, but because walking away from it felt like giving up on something she couldn’t name.

  The salt had clumped. The bark had split. The wick had burned out.

  She touched the bowl. Nothing stirred. The spell was still listening. Still waiting.

  But not for her. She left it. Left the circle half-smeared. The chalk dust clung to her soles.

  There was no anger. No grief. Just the weight of indifference. As if even sorrow had turned its face away.

  She put the kettle on. Not because she wanted tea. But because her body remembered how to boil water. The motion of it gave her something to do with her hands.

  She kneaded the bread dough without thinking. The flour stuck to her skin. It felt cold, even after she washed it off.

  The broom hadn’t moved. She picked it up.

  The bristles dragged over the floor like it was resisting her. Like the house wanted to keep its mess. Like it knew she wouldn’t finish.

  Still, she swept. Not out of hope. Not even out of habit. Just because she didn’t know what else to do.

  The dust gathered in the corner. She stared at it for a long time.

  The kettle steamed.

  And Mara, without spellwork, without intent, without anything but the echo of who she used to be, swept the room she no longer recognized as hers.

  No warmth returned. No magic sparked.

  Just the quiet sound of bristles moving across a floor that no longer cared to listen.

  And the bowl, still waiting.

  Still waiting.

  Still waiting.