Laurel hadn't meant to find the letters.
She'd only been reaching behind the apothecary's dusty spice rack to retrieve a jar of cinnamon bark when her fingers brushed the corner of an envelope—dry, brittle, and tucked so deep into the wall crevice that even the mischievous pantry brownie had never nosed it out. Curious, she eased the yellowed stack free, brushing off years of herb dust and a small sprig of dried rosemary still clinging to the twine binding them.
The top envelope bore her mentor's script—sharp, looping, and unmistakable: To Be Read Only When the Moon is Waning and the Kettle Whistles Twice.
A chill tingled down her spine.
Pippin, perched on the counter licking paw-pads free of honey residue, squinted at the parchment and muttered, "Bit dramatic, even for old Merribelle."
Laurel chuckled, though her heart fluttered. "You say that now, but she once hexed your tail for knocking over her camomile jars."
"Semantics. It was already crooked," he huffed, tail flicking indignantly.
Later that evening, with the moon indeed a gentle crescent outside her kitchen window and the kettle dutifully whistling for a second time (the first had been a false start), Laurel lit a single herbwick candle and untied the bundle.
The scent of sage and ink rose like a memory.
My dearest Laurel,If you are reading this, it means you've finally uncovered what I hid too well and too long. I apologize for the theatrics—it's hard to shake the habits of a hedgewitch who kept secrets like jam preserves.
The letter went on in a rambling, affectionate tone, recalling their early days in the grove, Laurel's clumsy first potion ("your soot poultice exploded with such optimism"), and Merribelle's unwavering belief that magic lived most vibrantly in overlooked corners.
Then came the turn:
There is a place beneath the Grove, child—a nook the roots don't speak of. You'll find it if you follow the humming moss on a wet morning. I left something there. Something I feared to name, even in these pages. Trust your instincts, and take a peppermint poultice. The air is thick with old things.
The candle guttered slightly as Laurel set the page down.
Humming moss. Wet mornings. Hidden nooks.
She glanced toward the greenhouse, where Rowan had left her boots dripping from this morning's rain-sogged herb run. It had been wet enough.
She barely noticed she was smiling.
Morning greeted Willowmere with the scent of damp earth and flowering thyme. Laurel bundled a fresh peppermint poultice into her satchel, cinched her cloak, and whispered to the ivy trailing along her shop's windowsill, "Keep an eye on Pippin. He's not allowed more than two honey drops."
The ivy shivered knowingly.
At the edge of Whisperwood, the grove pulsed with quiet magic. Deeper in, moss coated the bark in rippling green waves. But only one patch shimmered faintly in the rain-washed light, exuding a barely audible hum—like bees dreaming.
Laurel knelt beside it, brushing aside damp leaves until her fingers found stone.
A square of old flagstone, worn smooth, sat oddly in the forest floor. She traced the edges, then pressed down. It clicked softly.
With a gentle groan and a puff of lavender-scented dust, a hidden trapdoor eased upward.
Beneath lay a root-choked tunnel lit by the glow of fungus blooms—pale blue, like moonlight trapped in mushroom caps.
She descended slowly, breath steady, boots squelching softly on the moss-lined path. The air changed—cooler, tinged with mint and old parchment.
At the bottom: a small hollow, walls lined with wooden shelves and carved stone. Vials, notes, pressed herbs—decades of secret study, carefully organized and utterly Merribelle.
In the center, resting on a silk cloth, sat a leather-bound grimoire with her mentor's sigil embossed in green wax.
Laurel's breath caught.
She hadn't known Merribelle kept a second grimoire.
Hands trembling slightly, she opened it.
The first page bore a simple title: Of Spirits and Songleaf: Experiments in Grove Memory.
Below it, a scribbled note:Laurel, you were always meant to find this. Trust your ears, and your heart. Some memories hum back if asked kindly.
She emerged from the tunnel into golden mid-morning light, the hidden grimoire hugged close beneath her cloak. Birds resumed their chatter as if nothing had stirred—yet the grove felt more awake somehow, the hum beneath her soles subtly higher in pitch, as if recognizing the rediscovery.
Back at the apothecary, Laurel spread the old book open across her workspace. The ink had faded in places, but Merribelle's unmistakable script marched on in tidy, excited lines. Her former mentor had catalogued notes on everything from spirit-sung lullabies to peculiar pollen patterns in memory-triggering blossoms.
One page made Laurel pause.
Memory Lure #7: Tea steeped with songleaf and whisperbloom. Induces auditory memory echoes—brief flashes of forgotten sound tied to scent. Side effects: hiccups, vivid dreams, temporary belief one is a duck.
Laurel blinked.
"Well, we won't be trying that on festival day," she muttered.
Pippin, now dozing on a jar of juniper berries, cracked an eye. "Did you say duck?"
"Long story," she replied, tucking a curl behind her ear as she turned the page.
But beneath the humor, something stirred in her chest: a warmth, like hearing your own name sung in a childhood lullaby. These weren't just Merribelle's experiments. They were traces of the woman's deeper thoughts, layered like petals around a hidden seed.
A seed that perhaps hadn't blossomed in time.
Until now.
She began sorting ingredients with a strange new sense of purpose, her mind already racing to craft a variation of the memory tea. Not to sell or test—but to understand.
To listen.
The sun slipped low by the time Laurel poured hot water over the blend—a careful mixture of songleaf, whisperbloom, a pinch of lemon balm, and just enough memory moss to shimmer. She set the mug on the hearthstone beside her, watching steam curl upward like a question mark waiting for its answer.
Across the apothecary, the shelves rustled faintly. Not from wind, but in anticipation—jars clicking against one another, herbs rustling in their bundles.
Laurel took a sip.
Nothing exploded. That was a start.
The flavor was floral, earthy, and oddly nostalgic, like the scent of a long-closed book or the warmth of hands that once braided your hair.
And then, faintly—faintly—a voice.
Not external. Not imagined.
Inside her, nestled like a childhood song.
"...if the moss remembers what we forget, then perhaps the songleaf hums because it never did…"
Laurel froze.
It was Merribelle's voice.
Not a hallucination, not a dream—just a fragment, as if a memory had found its way into her cup.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
She wasn't crying.
She was laughing. Softly, helplessly. Because of course Merribelle had left herself tucked in tea leaves. Of course she had hidden her secrets not in spells, but in sips.
A final note glowed at the bottom of the cup—faint letters visible only once drained:
For the apprentice who became the answer to the question I never dared ask: What if someone truly listened?
Laurel sat in silence, tea warming her hands, eyes stinging slightly.
The apothecary hummed with quiet magic.
That night, the apothecary's garden bloomed in unexpected ways.
Songleaf vines twisted toward the window, petals opening to the moon. Memory moss puffed faintly, releasing traces of lavender and old laughter. Even the peppermint poultices seemed perkier.
Laurel stood at the greenhouse threshold, mug in hand, Pippin curled around her ankles like a punctuation mark.
"She left this for me," Laurel whispered.
"Obviously," the cat yawned. "Only a sentimental fool would bottle herself in botanicals."
"You adored her."
"I still do. Doesn't mean she wasn't extra."
Laurel smiled, gaze drifting upward. The stars shimmered behind drifting clouds, and she thought of all the things Merribelle had done for her—for the village—quietly, behind the curtain of everyday life. Brewing trust into tonics. Kindness into tinctures.
And now, Laurel understood.
This was her inheritance. Not just a shop or a grimoire, but the invitation to keep listening. To wonder. To brew memories alongside healing.
She turned and set the tea mug beside the potted whisperbloom. The petals leaned slightly toward it, as if listening.
Tomorrow, she'd begin transcribing Merribelle's secret notes into the Eldergrove Grimoire. Perhaps add her own observations. Maybe even craft a few blends for quiet remembering.
But for now, she let the hush of night wrap around her, the soft rustle of leaves and the heartbeat of the garden grounding her.
A wind shifted, warm and minty, brushing her cheek like a goodbye.
Or maybe a hello.
The next morning found Laurel hunched over the apothecary's front counter, pages spread like petals around her ink-stained fingers. She'd barely paused for breakfast—unless nibbling a cinnamon twig counted. Her pen scratched softly, transcribing Merribelle's notes into a fresh section of the Eldergrove Grimoire labeled "Memory Teas & Echoes."
Rowan burst through the door with a gust of morning chill and wild hair.
"You'll never believe it!" she announced, dropping a basket full of dew-wet clover. "I heard something in the greenhouse! The songleaf—it was humming!"
Laurel blinked, then chuckled. "That's not impossible."
Rowan paused, blinking owlishly. "Wait—you're not surprised?"
"I brewed something," Laurel said simply, gesturing to the steaming kettle. "And I think the grove's been waiting."
Rowan eyed the kettle as if it might recite poetry. "Does it… talk?"
"Only in fragments." Laurel winked. "And occasionally in rhyme."
Pippin, emerging from behind a stack of books with a sneezing fit, grumbled, "Add 'beware enchanted tea' to the training syllabus, will you?"
"Already noted," Laurel replied.
The moment settled gently between them, full of laughter, warmth, and the scent of thyme oil and memory moss.
Laurel handed Rowan a fresh page of the grimoire. "Here—copy this down next. We'll test the blend later. With supervision."
Rowan's eyes widened. "We're making memory tea?"
"We're continuing a conversation," Laurel corrected, her voice soft but sure.
And somewhere beneath the floorboards, the roots of the oak grove shifted gently, as if settling in for the next story.
As twilight settled over Willowmere, Laurel stepped outside to the porch with a fresh cup of Songleaf Steep and the old grimoire tucked beneath her arm. The village glowed soft in the evening light—lanterns swinging on gentle breezes, the scent of sweet mint and moss drifting through cobblestone paths.
She eased into her chair, the wood warm from the day's sun, and opened the grimoire to a bookmarked page.
Merribelle's handwriting danced across the parchment in tight lines: Memory is not just what we keep—it's what listens back.
Laurel sipped slowly.
The tea still carried that peculiar hush—the way sound dipped slightly when it passed over the tongue, like stepping into a story mid-whisper.
From inside, Rowan's laughter bubbled over a knocked-over pile of seed packets. Pippin's disgruntled meow followed.
The world felt fuller somehow. Not heavier. Just deeper.
Like roots.
She closed her eyes, let the moment settle.
A comforting breeze brushed her cheeks, ruffled the grimoire's pages, and nudged the wind chimes beside the door into a soft, melodic tangle.
As they rang, Laurel imagined the Grove listening.
And maybe, just maybe, humming back.
That night, Laurel added one final line to the Eldergrove Grimoire, her handwriting small and steady:
Some letters don't arrive by post. Some are left in roots and recipes, waiting to be steeped.
She blew gently on the ink, set down her pen, and turned down the lamp.
Outside, the moon hung low, framed perfectly in the apothecary's front window like a punctuation mark.
A full stop, maybe.
Or an ellipsis.
In the days that followed, Laurel noticed subtle shifts around Willowmere.
A pair of elder villagers wandered into the shop and paused near the Songleaf jars, staring into middle distance as if recalling music they hadn't heard in decades. A delivery sprite left a feather tucked into her herb basket—no note, but it smelled faintly of pipe smoke and honeysuckle.
Even the wind through the Grove carried a tone she couldn't quite place, like a chord always just on the edge of recognition.
Laurel began a new shelf labeled "Merribelle's Echoes." Not for sale. Not for study. Just a collection of blends, pressed flowers, and whispered fragments gathered one cup at a time.
She didn't need to understand every note.
Some things were meant to be steeped slowly.
On the seventh evening, Rowan peeked into the back room, eyes wide. "I think I heard a lullaby in the pantry."
Laurel smiled and reached for the kettle.
"Then we better listen together."