Every witch once had a home.
A house providing a roof to protect them from the rain and storm outside.
It is a tragedy that witching houses do have windows for eager eyes to stare through.
Every witch once had a home,
to come back to from however far they escaped into the forest.
A home with lights to conquer the darkness, and shine onto the street leading there.
Every witch had once been coming home.
To a scent.
A taste.
A pair of shoes always left next to the cupboard.
To a voice in the room next door.
To expecting someone else to arrive home very soon.
Every witch has seen it breaking,
turning into fragile pieces of a life long lost that make no sense anymore.
Every witch has witnessed
the light turn first red, then black;
The scent to vanish,
the shoes to suddenly be placed right inside the cupboard,
the voice to be silenced,
and no one else to ever arrive at this house again.
Every witch has inhaled this darkness,
has screamed and raged against these empty walls to cause an echo of a life long lost,
but there was nothing left.
Without witnessing this, why would anyone even become a witch?
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Mistress witch writes 