The road stretched endlessly before me, a ribbon of dirt unraveling beneath the pale morning sky. My boots were caked in mud, my cloak damp with dew, and every muscle in my body ached from days of walking without rest. But I didn't stop.
Stopping meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering.
And I refused to remember the way Agatha's shack had groaned as I slipped out the window, or the way Hera's voice had chased me into the dark, "You'll regret this, Sylvia!"
Maybe I would. But regret was a problem for tomorrow.
---
The forest gave way to rolling farmland, the air thick with the scent of turned earth and wild thyme. A farmer guided his oxen through a distant field, their slow, plodding steps kicking up dust that hung golden in the sunlight.
It made my skin itch.
I veered off the road, cutting through a meadow where yellow buttercups swayed in the breeze. There had to be a village nearby somewhere to trade the last of my herbs for a meal and a roof that didn't belong to a witch.
A twig snapped behind me.
I spun, dagger already in hand.
A scrawny fox froze mid-step, its russet fur bristling. We stared at each other for a breathless moment before it bolted into the underbrush.
I exhaled, lowering the blade.
Jumping at foxes now. Pathetic.
---
The village was smaller than I'd hoped—just a handful of cottages clustered around a weathered stone well. A few women gossiped as they drew water, their laughter sharp and bright. They fell silent as I approached.
"Herbs for trade," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Yarrow for fevers. Chamomile for sleep."
The oldest woman, her hands gnarled from decades of labor, eyed my satchel. "You a hedge witch?"
"Apothecary." I pulled out a small linen bundle, unfolding it to reveal the dried flowers within. "No spells. Just medicine."
She sniffed. "We've got our own remedies."
"Mine work better."
A gamble.
The woman's lips pursed, but curiosity won. "What'll you take for the yarrow?"
---
I left with a loaf of black bread, a wedge of cheese, and directions to an abandoned shepherd's hut half a mile east.
"Mind the roof," the woman called after me. "It's half caved in."
I didn't care. A crumbling roof was better than Agatha's shack.
---
The hut was exactly as described, small, drafty, and sagging under the weight of neglect. But the door still latched, and the hearth, though choked with old ashes, could hold a fire.
I dropped my satchel onto the dusty floor and sank onto the narrow cot, its straw mattress crackling beneath me. Outside, the wind whispered through the grass, and somewhere far off, a sheep bleated.
I thought about my mom, this was all my fault.
For the first time in weeks, I slept without dreaming.
---
I woke to rain pattering against the roof, the sound soft and steady. A leak in the corner dripped onto the packed earth floor, forming a tiny puddle.
I watched it for a long time, mesmerized by its simplicity.
No poison, No plots.
Just water, finding its way down.