Cycles

“She’s a beauty. Where did you say you found her?”

The same old questions, every time. What is she, where did you get her, how much did she cost. Yawn.

My girl Sandi was equally bored by these questions by now. “I didn’t. She come to me.”

It’s true, I did. Three years ago I sort of… began. I don’t remember much what came before, but there I was at her bedroom window, shining in the light of a full moon so big and close, you could almost touch it. It’s never been so big and close since.

And there was Sandi, alone in her room, weeping for her late grandmother. A great witch with such a knack for dreamwork that none in her family every knew nightmares.

The night her grandmother passed, and we found each other, was the night Sandi also found her own magic. I do not think that is mere chance. I think it is a cycle, sometimes hidden, sometimes seen. Whatever I am, and wherever I came from, in that moment I was just right for Sandi.

“A pity,” the questioning woman mutters, stroking a finger gently along my ear, “I think my daughter would adore one.”

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