September 14, Saturday

THE CRISP autumn air nipped at my fingers as I scribbled in my notebook, occasionally glancing up to watch Sawyer work. He was crouched over Rose's headstone, his brow furrowed in concentration. The once-smooth surface was now a web of cracks, like a roadmap of the young woman's troubled life.

"It looks unfixable," I said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us.

Sawyer looked up, a determined glint in his eye. "I can fix anything."

There was something in his tone, a quiet confidence that made me believe him. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, about the depths hidden beneath Sawyer's calm exterior.

"Mind grabbing me a bucket of water from the house?" he asked.

"Sure thing," I replied, setting aside my notebook and stretching as I stood.

I picked up the pail and headed toward the gate. My mind wandered to the curse ingredients hidden in my room in The Whisper House. I still hadn't found the perfect item from Curtis to complete the spell. Part of me wondered if I was subconsciously sabotaging my own plans.

My stomach growled and I realized it was lunch time. I turned back to ask Sawyer if he wanted a sandwich. "Hey, Sawyer—"

The words died in my throat. Sawyer stood with his back to me, his hands hovering over the headstone. Something about his body language seemed… off. He was making strange gestures in the air, his fingers moving with practiced precision. As I watched, he drew his index finger slowly along one of the larger cracks.

The stone seemed to ripple, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. When Sawyer lifted his hand, the crack was gone. Completely vanished, as if it had never been there at all.

I gasped.

Sawyer whirled around, his eyes wide. I saw something in his gaze—fear, guilt, or maybe both—before his calm mask slipped back into place.

"How... how did you do that?" I stammered, my heart racing.

Sawyer shrugged, the gesture a little too casual. He held up a tube. "It's just stone filler. Works wonders on these old headstones."

I stepped closer to scrutinize the surface of Rose's headstone. It was pristine, not a crack or seam in sight. "That's not filler. I saw what you did. The cracks... they just disappeared."

"Come on, Josephine," he said with a forced chuckle. "What else could it be?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What else indeed? Magic? The very idea was absurd.

"I don't know," I admitted finally.

"Sometimes the eye plays tricks, especially in this light. It's just a really good filler."

I wanted to believe him. It would be so much easier to accept his explanation, to pretend I hadn't seen the impossible happen right in front of me. But the writer in me, the part that thrived on stories and secrets, wouldn't let it go.

"Sawyer," I said softly, "you can trust me. If there's something you're not telling me..."

He turned away, his shoulders tense. "Drop it, Josephine. Please. And I need that water."

The plea in his voice tugged at my heart. I could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging between us, as heavy as the scent of peat among the gravestones.

"Right," I said, then turned to leave the graveyard. I didn't look back.

I was afraid I might see something else I didn't want to see.