I'm utterly exhausted by this job. The endless grind of the eight-to-five routine drains me day after day, and boredom has settled deep into my bones. Deadlines come crashing in like waves I can never quite keep up with, and no matter how hard I push, how much I pour myself into every task, it's never enough.
By the time the day ends, all I get are raised voices—shouts from bosses who seem blind to the effort I've given, blind to the weariness that's slowly eating me alive. I'm stuck in this cycle, giving my best to a job that feels like a cage, suffocating and pointless.
Lately, I catch myself wondering if I could just drift through life without working—a carefree existence where money somehow slips into my hands easily enough to cover the bills. Even as a witch, I can't seem to conjure cash out of thin air. How I wish it worked that way.
I never imagined adulting would feel so heavy, so relentless. In moments like these, when the weight presses hardest, I miss my mom more than ever — wishing she were here to make sense of it all, or maybe just to remind me that I'm not alone.
"Sera, are you coming to the bar with us tonight?" Jane's voice called out from across the room as she made her way toward my desk.
Jane was my only constant in this chaotic work world — the one friend who understood the grind and, more importantly, the only person who never judged my quirky sense of fashion. With her, I could be myself without hesitation.
She once told me, "It's just you. There's nothing to worry about, nothing to question."
But she didn't know—couldn't know—that I'm not just me. I'm a reflection, a copy of my mother, living in her shadow. And maybe, somehow, I always will be.
"I think I'll take a rain check," I said with a shy smile, knowing I was turning her down once again.
"Again?!" Jane exclaimed, eyes wide with mock disbelief. "What on earth is keeping you so busy these days? When am I going to get my friend back—free from all these endless responsibilities?"
She set down a freshly baked banana muffin in front of me, the sweet, warm scent curling through the air like a gentle invitation. I couldn't help but love her for moments like this.
"I'm saving up right now," I said, my voice steady. "Trying to get enough together to visit my mum. It's been a while since we last saw each other." It wasn't the whole truth—but not a complete lie either. The last time I'd seen her was ten years ago. A decade gone, just like that.
"I'd really love to meet your mom," she said with a hopeful smile, pulling the chair out and settling into it as she began arranging her workstation for the day. "Even just a quick introduction over FaceTime? I mean, we've been friends for what—two years now? Maybe it's finally time I met her."
Jane—and others before her—had asked the same question more times than I could count. And each time, my answer never changed.
"My mom's not really into tech," I'd say with a shrug. "She doesn't even own a phone. If you want to talk to her, you'd have to call the landline."
That excuse usually did the trick. What they didn't know was that this was the part where my powers quietly took over. I could cast spells—mimic voices so perfectly they were indistinguishable, even create vivid hallucinations. It was one of the few abilities I possessed, though I'd never dared to explore it deeply. The risks were too great, the unknowns too vast.
And honestly? I was terrified of what I might find if I pushed too far.
I never had a mentor to guide me through the depths of my powers. Everything I knew came from my mother's teachings and the scattered books we kept at home—worn pages filled with half-answers and cryptic instructions. Beyond that, I'd never dared to explore further. The rest of it remained untouched, like a locked door I was too afraid to open.
Then my phone rang—a number I didn't recognize flashing across the screen. Normally, I never answered calls from strangers. But something about this one felt different. A strange pull in my gut, like instinct urging me to pick up.
Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand moved on its own. I accepted the call.
"Hello?" I said cautiously. "Who is this?" Static crackled on the other end, followed by an unsettling silence.
"Hi! Is this Sera Thorne?"
The voice on the line was cheerful, almost too casual for the early hour.
My heart skipped. Sera Thorne. Not Sera Jones—the name I used in the ordinary world, the name on my ID, my emails, my life outside the Craft.
Hearing my Witch name spoken so easily by a stranger sent a jolt through me. Confusion twisted in my gut. Who was this woman, calling me at this morning, and how in the hell did she know that name?