When the Tide Remembers
The sea had always known Myra Ender.
Not in the way people knew one another. Not through names or conversations or shared histories.
The ocean knew her the way storms knew cliffs.
The way roots knew stone.
The way old magic knew blood.
Her cottage stood alone on a granite rise overlooking the Atlantic, tucked between wind-twisted spruce trees and centuries-old cedar. Salt gathered on the windows. Moss swallowed the stone walkway. Strands of dried herbs swung gently from the porch rafters, releasing their scent whenever the wind came in off the water.
The townspeople joked that Myra was a witch.
The fishermen laughed when they said it.
Then quietly touched the iron nails hanging inside their boats before heading out to sea.
Just in case.
Myra never corrected them.
Truth was easiest to hide when everyone believed it was a joke.
Tonight the moon hung low and swollen above the black water.
A harvest moon.
A witch's moon.
The kind her grandmother used to call a listening moon.
The kind that carried intentions farther than they were meant to travel.
Myra stood barefoot inside a circle of dark stones gathered from the shoreline below. Sea salt glittered around her feet. Juniper smoke curled lazily into the night air. Three candles burned with steady blue flames despite the wind.
The ritual should have been simple.
Small.
Merciful.
A working of clarity.
Nothing more.
The spell was intended for a lonely soul.
Someone trapped by regret.
Someone unable to see the lessons hidden inside their pain.
It was not a love spell.
It had never been a love spell.
Love magic was dangerous.
Messy.
Unpredictable.
Anybody foolish enough to force love deserved whatever disaster followed.
This was different.
This was understanding.
Growth.
Acceptance.
Myra raised her hands toward the moon.
Ancient words rolled from her tongue.
The language felt like cold water and distant thunder.
The sea responded immediately.
Far below, waves struck the cliffs with unusual force.
The wind rose.
Juniper smoke twisted violently upward.
The candles flickered.
Myra frowned.
Something felt wrong.
The magic was pulling harder than it should.
Like a fishing line caught on something enormous beneath the surface.
She spoke the final words.
The world went still.
For one impossible heartbeat there was no wind.
No waves.
No movement.
Then the ocean exploded...
About the Creator
Syl De'Vil
Air Force SF veteran, mother, witch, Bone collector, gremlin. skip tracer, I throw knives, and write about life and love and the lack there of all stitched from insomnia. I am just a girl, looking in the void, trying to fit in where I don't
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