December 12, Thursday

THE STEADY rasp of sandpaper against wood filled Rose's workshop as I smoothed another rough spot on the rocking chair. The piece was coming along nicely – the oak grain emerging from years of wear and neglect, promising something beautiful underneath.

The doorbell's chime startled me from my rhythm. I set aside the sandpaper and pulled off my work gloves, brushing dust from my clothes as I went to answer it.

Tilda Benson stood on my porch, her usual commanding presence diminished somehow. She looked smaller, older, her shoulders curved as if bearing an invisible weight.

"Can we talk?" she asked softly.

I nodded, stepping back to let her in. I uncovered two chairs in the living room and drew back a set of curtains to allow sunlight to stream in through the tall windows. Then I settled into the chair opposite her, and waited.

"I've come to apologize," she said, her hands twisting in her lap. "For my daughters. For what they did to you. To Wayne." Her voice caught. "I keep thinking – if I'd been a better mother, if I'd guided them differently..."

"You can't blame yourself for their choices."

"Can't I?" She met my gaze. "I'm the one who filled their heads with stories of power and ancient bloodlines. I encouraged their interest in the darker aspects of our faith, thinking it would keep them close to their heritage." She laughed bitterly. "Instead, I led them down a path that ended in murder."

"They're young," I offered. "They have time to learn from their mistakes."

"If the courts show mercy." She sighed heavily. "I've been doing a lot of thinking since... everything. About what really matters. About what kind of legacy I want to leave."

"And what did you decide?"

"That magic should heal, not harm. That our traditions should bring light, not darkness." She straightened slightly. "I'm stepping down as leader of the coven. Franny will take over – she's always had a gentler approach."

I thought of Franny's crystal shop, of her quiet strength. "She'll be good at it."

"Yes." Tilda's smile was sad but genuine. "She will."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in thought. Finally, Tilda stirred. "How are things with your ex-boyfriend? Still causing trouble?"

"Unfortunately." I rubbed my temples. "He won't stop unless I pay him a ridiculous amount of money."

"I would offer to cast another spell," she said, "but I've given up that kind of magic. It never ends well, as we've seen."

"I understand. I'll figure something out."

She stood to leave, then paused. "You know, sometimes the universe has its own way of dealing with people like that. No spells required."

"You think?"

"I do." She smiled mysteriously. "Good luck with your problem, Josephine."

I walked her to the door. On the porch, she turned back one last time.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For being kind about the girls. For understanding."

I watched her walk away, her head held high despite everything. Sometimes the strongest magic, I was learning, was in finding the courage to change, to admit mistakes, to begin again.

Weak winter sunlight filtered through bare trees, touching everything with gentle illumination.

Including, perhaps, the darkest of hearts.